HE  PEOPL 

.».  JLAJL^       A   .JU^V^»  JL   -Jw/J 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MRS.  NOEL  C.  BARTLETT 


donor 


5 
?5 


POETRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE 


COMPRISING  POEMS   ILLUSTRATIVE  OF 

THE  HISTORY  AND  NATIONAL  SPIRIT 

OF  ENGLAND,  SCOTLAND,  IRELAND, 

AND  AMERICA,  AND  POEMS 

OF  THE  WORLD  WAR 


SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED,  WITH  NOTES,  BY 
CHARLES  MILLS  GAYLEY 

AND 

MARTIN  C.  FLAHERTY 

OF  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


ENLARGED  EDITION 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  •  LONDON 
ATLANTA  •  DALLAS  •  COLUMBUS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1920,  BY  CHARLES  MILLS  GAYLEY 

AND  MARTIN  C.  FLAHERTY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

220.5 


GINN  AND  COMPANY  •  PRO- 
PRIETORS •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


A   BALLAD   OF  HEROES 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not,  — 
Because,  in  some  remoter  day, 

Your  sacred  dust  from  doubtful  spot 
Was  blown  of  ancient  airs  away,  — 
Because  you  perished,  —  must  men  say 

Your  deeds  were  naught,  and  so  profane 
Your  lives  with  that  cold  burden  ?    Na 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain  I 

Though  it  may  Be,  above  the  plot 

That  hid  your  once  imperial  clay, 

No  greener  than  o'er  -men  forgot 

The  unregarding  grasses  sway  ;  — 
Though  there  no  sweeter  is  the  lay 

Of  careless  bird,  —  though  you  remain 
Without  distinction  of  decay, — 

The  deeds  you  "wrought  are  not  in  vain  I 

No.    For  while  yet  in  tower  or  cot 
Your  story  stirs  the  pulses'  play  ; 

A  nd  men  for  get  the  sordid  lot  — 

The  sordid  care,  of  cities  gray  ;  — 
While  yet,  be-set  in  homelier  fray , 

They  learn  from  you  the  lesson  plain 

That  L  ife  may  go,  so  Honor  stay,  — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain  ! 

ENVOY 

Heroes  of  old!  I  humbly  lay 

The  laurel  on  your  graves  again  ; 

Whatever  men  have  done,  -men  may,  — 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 


THIS  little  volume  has  a  very  modest  but  distinct  and, 
we  think,  unique  purpose,  —  to  supply  the  reading  public 
and  the  schools  with  a  compact  body  not  necessarily  of  the 
most  highly  polished  or  artistic  poems  in  the  English  tongue, 
but  of  those  which  are  at  once  most  simple,  most  hearty, 
most  truly  characteristic  of  the  people,  their  tradition  and 
patriotic  spirit.  By  Poetry  of  the  People  we  do  not  mean 
only  ballads  of  countryside  or  battlefield  or  of  street  or 
village,  hearth  or  market,  not  only  the  production  of  the 
folk  improviser  or  his  succeeding  bard  long  ago  buried 
behind  the  hills  of  anonymity,  but  poetry  that  the  people 
possess  and  occupy  (or  should  occupy)  because  it  is  of 
their  blood  and  bone  and  sinew ;  poetry  sometimes  by  the 
people  and  sometimes  not,  but  always  for  them ;  poems  that 
were  household  words  with  our  fathers  and  mothers,  and 
lay  close  to  the  heart  because  of  the  heart ;  poems  that  now- 
adays beat  in  the  bosom  of  the  Folk  and  find  utterance  in 
the  hour  of  stress;  poems  which  more  often  than  not  are 
all  the  truer  art  because  they  are  not  artful.1 

It  may  have  appeared  to  others,  as  it  has  to  us,  that  liter- 
ature in  verse  is  not  learned  nor  enjoyed  nor  even  read  by 
young  or  old  as  much  as  it  used  to  be.  One  explanation  of 
this  neglect  is  very  probably  that  in  the  place  of  unso- 
phisticated poetry,  such  as  generations  of  our  forefathers 


vi  Preface 

loved,  there  have  been  too  frequently  introduced  into  the 
schools,  and  at  too  early  a  period,  the  masterpieces  of 
our  consciously  artistic,  highly  intellectual,  and  .even  sub- 
jective verse.  Of  this  illogical  procedure  the  inevitable 
corollary  is  that  not  a  few  well-meaning  but  theory-ridden 
teachers,  in  their  efforts  to  fix  a  youthful  mind  upon 
things  literary  designed  for  grown-ups,  —  highly  cultivated 
at  that,  —  are  driven  to  rhetorical,  gerund-grinding,  ana- 
lytical, or  (horresco  referens)  quasi-philosophical,  pseudo- 
scientific  devices  in  handling  that  which  should  be  the 
simplest  of  ideal  devotions  and  delights.  Now  everybody 
who  has  not  been  spoiled  by  vagaries  knows  that  the 
natural  and  healthy  taste  of  the  growing  boy,  when  it 
is  for  literature  at  all,  is  for  the  literature  that  while  it 
informs  manages  to  entertain,  for ,  the  poetry  that  inter- 
prets because  it  delights;  that  is  to  say,  for  the  sponta- 
neous and  healthy  poetry  of  the  Folk  when  it  was  a  boy, 
or  of  that  element  in  the  Folk  that  preserves  the  vigor  and 
push  of  youth  in  the  hour  of  national  trial. 

If  this  little  book  can  contribute  somewhat  toward  explod- 
ing the  fallacy  that  poetry  is  something  other  than  poetry,  — 
material,  forsooth,  for  translation,  parsing,  trope-hunting, 
rhetorical  exercises,  platitudinous  preaching,  or  anything 
else  extraneous  to  art,  —  it  will  have  accomplished  at  least 
half  the  purpose  of  the  editors.  Of  course  good  poetry  has 
a  lesson  for  him  who  can  feel  it.  Like  all  good  things  it 
cannot  help  blessing  those  who  take  it  on  faith.  Its  favors 
are  not  for  those  who  would  conquer  but  for  those  who  sur- 
render. The  best  way  to  study  it  is  not  to  study  but  to  enjoy. 
And  this  should  be  especially  true  of  the  poetry  which  we 
place  in  the  hands  of  our  ingenuous  youth ;  if  it  cannot 
captivate  it  is  an  offense,  a  folly,  —  worse  than  that,  a  bore. 
Such  poetry  must  be  chiefly  of  an  objective  cast,  of  genuine 


Preface  vii 

sentiment,  and  of  simple  style.  It  must  neither  bewilder 
nor  deliberately  instruct.  It  must  have  the  quality  of 
charming,  of  winning  the  reader  to  repeat  and  to  murmur, 
and  to  learn  because  it  is  easier  to  do  so  than  to  forget. 

Here  are  ballads  of  the  olden  time,  direct  and  naive, 
easy  to  understand,  —  save  where  some  antiquated  word  or 
phrase  may  intervene,  and  then  glossary  and  notes  stand 
ready  to  help  out,  —  ballads  made  to  say  and  to  sing ; 
stories  of  heroic  adventure,  romantic  and  supernatural ; 
whilom  fyttes  and  modern  instances  of  patriotism  and 
devotion ;  songs  of  homely  sentiment,  popular  spirit,  and 
nationality ;  themes  mostly  external  and  concrete,  —  the 
poetry  of  history,  such  as  appealed  naively  to  the  listen- 
ing and  consentaneous  crowd.  And  if  occasionally  there 
is  here  to  be  found  the  poetry  also  of  suggestion  for  the 
individual  who  reads  and  reflects,  it  is  always  of  emotions 
simple  and  unsophisticated,  universal,  abiding,  and  sincere. 
Here,  too,  are  manly  ideals,  ancient  but  ever-living. 

If  this  little  bark  succeeds  in  making  the  haven  of  the 
heart,  it  may  also,  perchance,  succeed  in  unlading  the  hope 
with  which  it  is  fraught.  Who  can  estimate  the  gain  to 
the  American  spirit,  —  and  by  that  we  mean  the  spirit  of 
rational  freedom  expressed  in  terms  of  nationality,  —  the 
gain  that  would  ensue,  if  our  youth  would  but  occupy  and 
prize  the  literary  heritage  that  is  theirs  ?  The  poetry  of 
the  people  of  England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  and  America 
has  for  us  a  certain  scriptural  worth  as  well  as  historic. 
Is  it  not  the  immemorial  record  of  sentiment,  sacrifice,  and 
ideal  —  the  most  enduring  and  the  noblest  of  our  fore- 
fathers ;  is  it  not  the  conserver  of  that  experience  whence 
proceed  our  present  prestige  and  security?  Now,  naturally 
effective  in  the  development  and  discipline  of  the  national 
pride  as  is  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  national  history, 


viii  Preface 

more  effective  still  is  the  possession  of  that  which,  as  Aris- 
totle has  said,  is  truer  than  history,  —  the  speaking  soul  of 
its  events,  its  poetry.  Young  men  and  women  for  whom 
that  voice  continues  to  haunt  the  corridors  of  the  present 
cannot  but  honor  our  national  forebears,  cannot  but  emulate 
their  love  of  liberty,  their  endurance  and  orderly  restraint, 
their  manliness,  their  devotion  to  duty  and  to  country,  and 
so  cannot  but  cultivate  in  perpetuity  those  ideals  that  go  to 
make  a  noble  people. 

Since,  however,  there  is  a  difference  —  a  gulf  fixed  — 
between  the  sense  of  nationality  of  which  we  speak,  digni- 
fied, legitimate,  and  effective,  and  the  provincialism  that 
often  parades  in  its  place,  we  have  tried  in  these  excerpts 
from  the  Poetry  of  the  People  to  emphasize  the  deeper  and 
wider  justification  of  our  national  pride  —  the  justification 
that  lies  in  the  blood  and  speech  of  generations  overseas 
who  knew  what  patriotism  meant  long  before  their  children, 
our  immediate  ancestors,  founded  here  the  liberties  which 
we  enjoy.  A  parochial  spirit  which  ignores  the  transatlantic 
conditions  from  which  we  proceed  sacrifices  more  in  mean- 
ing than  it  makes  in  show.  If  we  would  appreciate  our 
national  purport  we  must  insist  upon  our  proprietorship  in 
the  thousand-year  roots  of  the  racial  oak  ;  we  must  continue 
to  possess  the  stately  green  and  spread  of  the  lower  foliage, 
the  common  antecedent  of  the  Anglo-Celto-American  rami- 
fications that  stir  the  upper  air  to-day.  We  must  rejoice  as 
by  community  of  birthright,  in  the  outgrowth,  overseas  as 
well  as  here  at  home,  of  that  poetry  that  expresses  the  spirit 
and  sap  of  our  common  stock.  While,  therefore,  this  book 
contains  a  liberal  supply  of  poems  illustrative  of  our  Ameri- 
can history  and  national  spirit,  so  arranged  as  to  be  readily 
perused  in  connection  with  the  narrative  of  the  growth  of 
the  nation,  it  prefaces  the  poems  of  America,  not  simply  for 


Preface  ix 

chronological  reason,  with  those  of  the  motherlands  —  poetry 
of  event  and  sentiment,  ours  by  inheritance  as  much  as  theirs. 
It  will  of  course  be  remarked  that  a  few  of  the  songs 
included  in  the  collection,  like  Yankee  Doodle,  for  instance, 
and  The  British  Grenadiers,  are  devoid  of  literary  merit. 
These  few  were  inserted  because  of  their  historical  impor- 
tance. The  inclusion  of  others,  like  Annie  Laurie,  The  Lass 
.of  Richmond  Hill,  The  Coolun,  Bells  of  Shandon,  and  Ben 
Bolt,  though  not  in  any  sense  expressive  of  public,  but  of 
personal,  emotion,  calls  for  no  justification.  It  is  a  matter  of 
regret  that  golden  songs,  stately  in  their  simplicity,  which 
are  as  much  a  part  of  our  literary  heritage  and  as  indicative 
of  the  spirit  of  the  people  as  the  more  studied  contributions 
of  our  great  poets,  should  be  elbowed  out  of  school  and 
home  in  favor  of  ready-made  jingles,  mediocre,  mawkish, 
vapid,  trumped  up  for  the  trick  of  the  music  hall  or  the 
trade  of  secondary  education.  There  is,  surely,  a  mean 
between  verses  that  are  cabbage  and  verses  that  are  caviare. 
We  think  that  it  may  be  found  in  that  Poetry  of  the  People 
which  grows  never  old  because  it  is  sturdy,  sweet,  and  true 
—  sufficient  to  the  needs  of  to-morrow  as  of  yesterday. 


CHARLES  MILLS  GAYLEY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
October  7,  1903 


PREFACE  TO  THE  ENLARGED  EDITION 

IN  this  edition  we  have  added  twenty-seven  poems  and 
national  anthems  of  the  World  War  and  a  brief  account, 
illustrated  by  representative  stanzas,  of  British  and  American 
popular  songs  of  recognized  currency  at  home  and  at  the 
front.  Of  these  songs  even  those  that  make  no  pretense 
to  literary  merit  deserve  mention  in  a  book  of  this  kind 
because  they  have  sung  themselves  into  history.  The  poems 
that  we  have  selected  will  fulfill  their  mission  if  they  quicken 
the  hearts  of  our  boys  and  girls  with  patriotism  and  devotion 
to  the  service  of  humanity  —  the  spirit  in  which  the  struggle 
now  ended  was  undertaken  and  carried  through.  No  more 
fitting  or  enduring  memorial  to  those  who  died  for  God  and 
country  could  be  conceived. 

February  16,  1920 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE 

IT  remains  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  publishers  and 
authors.  The  selections  from  the  writings  of  Henry  W.  Long- 
fellow, Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  Bret  Harte,  E.  C.  Stedman,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 
James  Russell  Lowell,  and  Bayard  Taylor  are  used  by  permission 
of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton  Mifflin  Com- 
pany, the  authorized  publishers  of  their  works.  We  are  similarly 
indebted  to  Harper  &  Brothers  for  the  selections  from  the  poetry 
of  G.  W.  Carryl  (in  Harpers  Weekly},  J.  B.  Gilder,  and  Miss 
Kate  Putnam  Osgood ;  to  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  for  the 
selections  from  T.  Buchanan  Read ;  to  the  B.  F.  Johnson 
Publishing  Company  for  Timrod's  Ode ;  to  Mr.  P.  J.  Kennedy, 
New  York,  for  Father  Ryan's  The  Conquered  Banner;  to  the 
Youth's  Companion  for  Bennett's  The  Flag  Goes  By ;  to  The 
Century  Co.  for  the  selections  from  Riley  and  Meredith ;  to 
Mrs.  George  Boker  for  George  H.  Boker's  Dirge ;  to  D.  Appleton 
and  Company  for  the  selections  from  Bryant  and  Stanton ;  to 
the  Whitaker  and  Ray  Company,  publishers  of  the  Complete 
Works  of  Joaquin  Miller,  for  the  two  poems  by  that  author ;  to 
Mr.  C.  Eliot  Beers  for  his  mother's  All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac-, 
to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  the  selection  from  G.  P.  Lathrop  ; 
to  the  New  England  Publishing  Company  for  Butterworth's 
Thanksgiving;  to  the  Lothrop  Publishing  Company  for  Hayne's 
Vicksburg;  to  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company  for  the  prologue  from 
Austin  Dobson  ;  to  the  Philadelphia  Record  for  The  Warship  of 
1812 ;  to  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  for  the  selection  from 
Whitman ;  to  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company  for  Kipling's  Reces- 
sional; to  the  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  Berton  Braley's 
Heroes,  from  "In  Camp  and  Trench,"  copyright,  1918,  and  for 
John  Oxenham's  two  poems  from  "  The  Vision  Splendid," 


xii  Copyright  Notice 

copyright,  1917  ;  to  The  Macmillan  Company  for  McLandburgh 
Wikon's  two  poems  from  "  The  Little  Flag  on  Main  Street "  5 
to  E.  P.  Button  &  Company  for  Patrick  MacGill's  It 's  a  Far,  Far 
Cry,  from  "  Soldier  Songs  " ;  to  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  John 
McCrae's  In  Flanders  Fields,  from  book  of  same  title ;  to  The 
Copp  Clark  Company  for  Bourinot's  Immortality;  to  Scribner's 
Magazine  for  Crawford's  Vive  La  France ;  to  the  Westminster 
Gazette  for  the  poems  by  Dorothy  Margaret  Stuart,  Lina  Jephson, 
and  Rose  Macaulay ;  to  the  Scotsman  for  the  poem  by  R.  A.  S. ; 
to  JBlackwood's  Magazine  for  Klaxon's  America  Comes  In ;  to  the 
New  York  Sun  and  New  York  Herald  for  Rooney's  two  poems ; 
to  the  Red  Cross  Magazine  for  Thomas  L.  Masson's  The  Red  Cross 
Nurses;  to  the  Athenaum  for  Niven's  A  Carol  from  Flanders. 
We  are  also  under  especial  obligation  for  individual  permission 
to  use  their  poems  and,  in  several  cases  for  kind  assistance,  to 
Messrs.  Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke,  Henry  Holcomb  Bennett,  James 
Whitcomb  Riley,  William  T.  Meredith,  Joseph  B.  Gilder,  Guy 
Wetmore  Carryl,  Hezekiah  Butterworth,  John  Albee,  James 
Jeffrey  Roche,  Albert  Bigelow  Paine,  Rudyard  Kipling,  Dorothy 
Margaret  Stuart,  Lina  Jephson,  Rose  Macaulay,  Charlotte  Holmes 
Crawford,  Henry  van  Dyke,  Frederick  Niven,  John  Jerome 
Rooney,  and  Lieutenant  Arthur  Bourinot. 

If  in  any  case  publisher  or  author  should  fail  to  find  here 
due  acknowledgment  of  his  proprietorship  we  shall  welcome 
information  of  the  fact  and  attempt  to  remedy  the  deficiency. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK   FIRST— OLDER   BALLADS 
HEROIC 

PAGE 

Sir  Patrick  Spens i 

The  Battle  of  Otterbourne 3 

The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 8 

Edom  o'  Gordon .18 

OF  ROBIN   HOOD 

Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 24 

Robin  Hood  Rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons 29 

Robin  Hood  and  Allin  a  Dale 34 

Robin  Hood  and  the  King 38 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 47 

ROMANTIC   AND   DOMESTIC 

The  Douglas  Tragedy 50 

Lord  Randal 53 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 54 

Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray 55 

The  Twa  Corbies 56 

Helen  of  Kirconnell 57 

OF   THE   SUPERNATURAL 

The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well 58 

The  Demon  Lover  .    ,    , ,60 

xiii 


xiv  Contents 

BOOK  SECOND— POEMS   OF  ENGLAND 
HISTORICAL  AND  PATRIOTIC 

PAGE 

God  Save  the  King.     Attributed  to  Henry  Carey 65 

England.    Shakespeare 66 

Henry  the  Fifth's  Address  to  his  Soldiers  before  Harfleur.    Shakes- 
peare     67 

King  Henry  the  Fifth  before  Agincourt.     Shakespeare 68 

The  Ballad- of  Agincourt.    Drayton *    .    70 

The  "  Revenge,"  a  Ballad  of  the  Fleet.     Tennyson 74 

Give  a  Rouse.    Browning go 

The  Sally  from  Coventry.     Thornlury 81 

The  Battle  of  Naseby.    Macaulay 82 

The  Three  Troopers.     Thornbury 85 

The  British  Grenadiers.     Anon 87 

Rule,  Britannia.     Thomson 88 

Ode,  Written  in  the  Year  1 746.     Collins 90 

Battle  of  the  Baltic.     Campbell 90 

Ye  Mariners  of  England.     Campbell 93 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior.     Words-worth 94 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.     Wolfe 97 

The  Field  of  Waterloo.    Byron 98 

The  Lost  Leader.     Browning 101 

Memorial  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Wordsworth.    Matthnv  Arnold  .  102 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.     Tennyson  .     .     .    .105 

The  Loss  of  the  "  Birkenhead."    Doyle 114 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade.     Tennyson 116 

Santa  Filomena.     Longfellow 118 

The  Song  of  the  Camp.     Bayard  Taylor 119 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow.     JR.  T.  S.  Lowell 121 

The  March  of  the  Workers.     William  Morris 124 

Recessional.    Kipling 126 

MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS   AND   BALLADS 

Barbara  Allen.    Anon 128 

The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington.     Anon 129 

My  True-Love  hath  my  Heart    Sir  Philip  Sidney 131 


Contents  xv 

PAGE 

Who  is  Silvia  ?     Shakespeare 132 

Take,  O,  Take  those  Lips  Away.     Shakespeare 132 

Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind.     Shakespeare 133 

To  Celia.    Jonson 133 

You  Gentlemen  of  England.    Altered  from  Martin  Parker    .     .    .  134 

Sally  in  our  Alley.     Carey 136 

The  Vicar  of  Bray.    Anon 138 

The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill.    McNally 140 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea.     Cunningham 141 

Poor  Tom  Bowling.    Dibdin 142 


BOOK  THIRD— POEMS  OF  SCOTLAND 

HISTORICAL  AND  PATRIOTIC 

This  is  my  Own,  my  Native  Land.    Scott 143 

Bannockburn.    Burns 144 

Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black.     Scott 145 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest ;  or,  The  Battle  of  Floden.    Jane  Elliot 

and  Alison  Rutherford 146 

Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border.    Scott 149 

The  Execution  of  Montrose.    Aytoun .  150 

The  Bonnets  o'  Bonnie  Dundee.    Scott.    .    .    . 157 

The  Old  Scottish  Cavalier.    Aytoun 159 

The  Lament  of  Flora  Macdonald.    Hogg 162 

Wae  's  Me  for  Prince  Charlie.     William  Glen 163 

The  Campbells  are  Comin'.    Anon 164 

The  Blue  Ball  of  Scotland.    Anon 165 

MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS   AND   BALLADS 

Annie  Laurie.     William  Douglas  and  Lady  John  Scott       ....  166 

Lochaber  No  More.     Ramsay 167 

There  's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House.    Mickle  and  Beattie  .    .    .    .  168 

A  Red,  Red  Rose.     Burns 171 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that.    Burns 171 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo.     Burns 173 

Afton  Water.    Burns 174 

Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon.    Burns 175 


xvi  Contents 

PAGB 

My  Heart 's  in  the  Highlands.    Burns 176 

Jock  of  Hazeldean.    Scott 176 

Lochinvar.     Scott 178 

When  the  Kye  Comes  Hame.    Hogg 180 

Jessie,  the  Flower  of  Dumblane.     Tannahill 182 

The  Bonnie  Banks  o'  Loch  Lomond.    Anon 183 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal.     Lady  Nairne 184 

Auld  Lang  Syne.    Burns 185 


BOOK  FOURTH— POEMS  OF  IRELAND 

HISTORICAL  AND  PATRIOTIC 

The  Green  Little  Shamrock  of  Ireland.     Cherry    ........  187 

The  Irish  Wife.    McGee 188 

Dark  Rosaleen.     Mangan 190 

The  Battle  of  the  Boyne.    Attributed  to  Blacker 193 

After  Aughrim.     Geoghegan 195 

The  Shan  Van  Vocht.    Anon 196 

The  Wearing  of  the  Green.   Street  Ballad.  Attributed  to  Boucicault  198 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead.    Ingram 200 

The  Geraldines.    Davis 202 

Soggarth  Aroon.    Banim 205 

The  Girl  I  Left  behind  Me.    Anon 207 

MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS   AND   BALLADS 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls.    Moore 209 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters.    Moore .  209 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms.    Moore    .     .     .     ,  210 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer.    Moore 211 

Oft,  in  the  Stilly  Night.    Moore 212 

The  Coolun.    Ferguson 213 

The  Bells  of  Shandon.    Mahony 214 

Kathleen  Mavoumeen.    Mrs.  Crawford 215 

The  Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant.    Lady  Dufferin 216 

Dear  Land.     Sliabh  Cuilinn 218 

O  Bay  of  Dublin.    Lady  Dufferin 220 


Contents  xvii 

PAGE 

Killarney.     O'Rourke 221 

Song  from  the  Backwoods.     Sullivan 223 

To  God  and  Ireland  True.    Ellen  O'Leary 225 


BOOK   FIFTH— POEMS    OF  AMERICA 

HISTORICAL  AND   PATRIOTIC 

America.    Smith ".     .  227 

Columbus.    Miller       228 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims.     Hemans 230 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers.    Pierpont 231 

The  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor.    Butterworth 233 

The  Concord  Hymn.     Emerson 236 

Warren's  Address.    Pierpont 237 

The  Maryland  Battalion.    Palmer 238 

"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  Glory  Arise."     Dwight 240 

Song  of  Marion's  Men.     Bryant 241 

Eutaw  Springs.    Freneau 244 

Carmen  Bellicosum.    McMaster 245 

The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill.     Wallace 247 

Washington's  Statue.     Tuckerman 248 

Hail,  Columbia.     Hopkinson 249 

The  "  Constitution's  "  Last  Fight.    Roche 251 

"  Old  Ironsides."     Holmes 254 

The  Warship  of  1812.     Philadelphia  Record 255 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner.    Key 256 

Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean.    Shaw 258 

The  American  Flag.    Drake 259 

God  Bless  our  Native  Land.     Brooks  and  Dwight 261 

The  Defence  of  the  Alamo.    Miller       262 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead.     O'Hara 263 

John  Brown's  Body.     Anon ;  267 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic.     Howe 268 

The  Battle-Cry  of  Freedom.     Root 269 

The  Reveille.     Harte 270 

The  "  Cumberland."    Longfellow 271 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines.     Stedman 273 


xviii  Contents 

PAGE 

Barbara  Frietchie.     Whittier 274 

Vicksburg.    Hayne 277 

Keenan's  Charge.    Lathrof 279 

Gettysburg.    Stedman 282 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More.     Gibbons 288 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp.    Root 290 

Farragut.     Meredith 291 

Marching  through  Georgia.     Work 293 

Sheridan's  Ride.    Read 294 

The  Old  Man  and  Jim.    Riley 296 

Roll-Call.     Shepherd 299 

Dixie,  Pike;  Dixie's  Land,  Emmett 300,354 

My  Maryland.     Randall 302 

The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag.    McCarthy  or  Ketchum 305 

A  Georgia  Volunteer.     Totvnsend 306 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way.    Palmer 308 

The  Conquered  Banner.    Ryan 310 

Ode  to  the  Confederate  Dead.     Timrod 312 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier.    Boker 313 

A  Soldier's  Grave.    Albee 314 

Driving  Home  the  Cows.     Osgood 315 

The  Brave  at  Home.    Read 317 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray.    Pinch 318 

Abraham  Lincoln.    Bryant 320 

O  Captain !  My  Captain  1     Whitman 320 

Lincoln.    Lowell 322 

The  Republic.    Longfellow  (From  "The  Building  of  the  Ship")    .    .324 

Centennial  Hymn.     Whittier 325 

America.    Bayard  Taylor 327 

For  Cuba.    Bell 328 

Answering  to  Roll-Call.     Stanton 329 

The  Men  behind  the  Guns.    Rooney 330 

The  War-Ship  "  Dixie."     Stanton 331 

The  Fighting  Race.     Clarke 332 

The  New  Memorial  Day.    Paine 335 

The  Flag  Goes  By.     Bennett 336 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In.     Carryl 337 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways.    /.  B.  Gilder 339 


Contents  xix 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS  AND    BALLADS 

PAGE 

Yankee  Doodle.    Anon 340 

Nathan  Hale.    Anon 342 

All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac.     Ethelinda  Beers 344 

Tenting  on  the  Old  Camp  Ground.    Kittredge 346 

Home,  Sweet  Home.     Payne 347 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave.     Sargent 348 

Ben  Bolt    English 349 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home,  Good-Night.    Foster 351 

Massa  's  in  de  Cold  Ground.    Foster 352 

Old  Folks  at  Home.    Foster 353 

Dixie's  Land.    Emmett 354 


BOOK   SIXTH— POEMS  OF    THE    WORLD   WAR 

HISTORICAL  AND   PATRIOTIC 

The  Brabanconne 357 

La  Marseillaise  .     Rouget  de  Lisle 358 

The  Marseillaise  (Translation) 359 

Vive  la  France.     Charlotte  Holmes  Crawford 360 

The  Name  of  France,     van  Dyke 362 

The  Maple  Leaf  Forever.     Muir 363 

The  Outer  Guard.     Oxenliam 364 

The  School  at  War.'   "  C.  A.  A." 365 

It's  a  Far,  Far  Cry.    MacGill 366 

Evensong  in  Westminster  Abbey.     Dorothy  Margaret  Stuart      .     .  367 

A  Carol  from  Flanders.     Nhien 368 

The  Soldier.    Brooke 369 

In  England  Now.     Lina  Jephson        370 

The  Garden  of  the  Dead.     Rose  Macaiday 370 

Lyin'  Deid.    R.A.S. 372 

In  Flanders  Fields.     McCrae 373 

Garibaldi's  War  Hymn.     Mercantini  (tr.  Dole) 374 

America  Comes  In.     "Klaxon" 375 

The  Little  Star  in  the  Window.     Rooney 376 

The  Little  Flag  on  Main  Street.     Wilson 377 

A  Round  Trip.     Wilson 378 


xx  Contents 

PAGE 

Both  Worshipped  the  Same  Great  Name.    Anon 378 

Heroes.    Braley 379 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death.    Seeger 380 

The  Red  Cross  Nurses.    Masson ." 381 

You  Also  !     Oxenham 382 

Immortality.     Bourinot 383 


POPULAR    SONGS   OF    THE    WORLD   WAR 

A  BRIEF  ACCOUNT  WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 

It 's  a  Long,  Long  Way  to  Tipperary.    Judge  and  Williams     .     .     .  384 

Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning.     Lena  Guilbert  Ford 384 

Pack  up  your  Troubles  in  your  Old  Kit-bag 385 

Roses  in  Picardy.      Weatherly 385 

Where  Do  We  Go  from  Here.    Johnson  and  Wenrich 386 

Over  There.     Cohan 386 

Good-bye  Broadway  !    Hello  France  !     Reisner  and  Davis  ....  386 

Joan  of  Arc.     Bryan  and  Wcston 386 

There 's  a  Long,  Long  Trail.    King 387 

PROLOGUE.    A  Ballad  of  Heroes.    Dobson iii 

EPILOGUE.     Sons  of  the  Self-Same  Race.    Austin 388 

NOTES 389 

GLOSSARY 415 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  POEMS 421 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 431 


of  tf)e  people 


BOOK  FIRST— OLDER  BALLADS 


H>ir  Patrick 


The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 
Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine  : 

"  O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 
To  sail  this  schip  of  mine  ?  " 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 
Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne  : 

"  Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor, 
That  sails  upon  the  se." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  lauched  he  ; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

The  teir  blinded  his  ee.    - 


Poetry  of  the  People 

"  O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid, 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 

To  sail  upon  the  se  ! 

"  Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 
Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne  :  " 

"  O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 
For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 

"  Late  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone, 
Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 

And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 
That  we  will  cum  to  harme." 

O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 
To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone  ; 

Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 
Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand, 

Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 
Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they  '11  se  thame  na  mair. 

Haf  owre,  half  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  f adorn  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit 


The  Battle  of  Otterbourne 

II 

QTIje  -Battle  of  ©tterbottm 

1388 

It  fell  about  the  Lammas  tide, 

When  the  muir-men  win  their  hay, 

The  doughty  Douglas  bound  him  to  ride 
Into  England  to  drive  a  prey. 

He  chose  the  Gordons  and  the  Graemes 
With  them  the  Lindsays  light  and  gay ; 

But  the  Jardines  wad  not  with  him  ride, 
And  they  rue  it  to  this  day. 

And  he  has  burned  the  dales  o'  Tyne, 
And  part  o'  Bambrough  shire, 

And  three  good  towers  on  Reidswire  fells, 
And  left  them  a'  on  fire. 

And  he  marched  up  to  Newcastel 

And  rade  it  round  about : 
"  O  wha  's  the  lord  of  this  castel 

Or  wha  's  the  lady  o  't  ?  " 

But  up  spake  proud  Lord  Percy  then, 

And  O  but  he  spake  hie ! 
"  I  am  the  lord  of  this  castel, 

My  wife  's  the  lady  gay." 

"  If  thou  'rt  the  lord  of  this  castel, 

Sae  weel  it  pleases  me  I 
For,  ere  I  cross  the  Border  fells, 

The  tane  of  us  shall  dee."  — 


Poetry  of  the  People 

He  took  a  lang  spear  in  his  hand, 

Shod  with  the  metal  free  ; 
And  for  to  meet  the  Douglas  there 

He  rade  richt  furiouslie. 

But  O  how  pale  his  lady  lookd 

Frae  aff  the  castel  wa', 
As  doun  before  the  Scottish  spear 

She  saw  proud  Percy  fa'  ! 

"Had  we  twa  been  upon  the  green, 

And  never  an  eye  to  see, 
I  wad  hae  had  you,  flesh  and  fell, 

But  your  sword  sail  gae  wi'  me." 

"  But  gae  ye  up  to  Otterbourne, 

And  bide  there  dayis  three, 
And  gin  I  come  not  ere  three  dayis  end, 

A  f  ause  knight  ca'  ye  me  ! " 

"  The  Otterbourne  's  a  bonnie  burn, 

'T  is  pleasant  there  to  be  ; 
But  there  is  nought  at  Otterbourne 

To  feed  my  men  and  me. 

"  The  deer  rins  wild  on  hill  and  dale, 
The  birds  fly  wild  frae  tree  to  tree ; 

But  there  is  neither  bread  nor  kale, 
To  fend  my  men  and  me. 

"  Yet  I  will  stay  at  the  Otterbourne, 
Where  you  shall  welcome  be ; 

And,  if  ye  come  not  at  three  dayis  end, 
A  fause  lord  I  '11  ca'  thee." 


The  Battle  of  Otterboume 

"  Thither  will  I  come,"  proud  Percy  said, 
"  By  the  might  of  our  Ladye  !  " 

"  There  will  I  bide  thee,"  said  the  Douglas, 
"  My  troth  I  plight  to  thee  !  " 

They  lichted  high  on  Otterbourne, 

Upon  the  bent  sae  broun  ; 
They  lichted  high  on  Otterbourne, 

And  threw  their  pallions  doun. 

And  he  that  had  a  bonnie  boy, 

Sent  out  his  horse  to  grass  ; 
And  he  that  had  not  a  bonnie  boy, 

His  ain  servant  he  was. 

But  up  then  spake  a  little  page, 

Before  the  peep  of  dawn : 
"  O,  waken  ye,  waken  ye,  my  good  lord, 

For  Percy  's  hard  at  hand." 

"  Ye  lee,  ye  lee,  ye  leear  loud ! 

Sae  loud  I  hear  ye  lee : 
For  Percy  had  not  men  yestreen 

To  dight  my  men  and  me. 

"  But  I  hae  dreamed  a  dreary  dream, 

Beyond  the  Isle  o'  Sky  ; 
I  saw  a  deid  man  win  a  fight, 

And  I  think  that  man  was  I." 

He  belted  on  his  guid  braidsword, 

And  to  the  field  he  ran  ; 
But  he  forgot  the  helmet  good, 

That  should  have  kept  his  brain. 


Poetry  of  the  People 

When  Percy  wi'  the  Douglas  met, 

I  wot  he  was  fu'  fain : 
They  swakked  their  swords,  till  sair  they  swat, 

And  the  blude  ran  down  like  rain. 

But  Percy  wi'  his  guid  braidsword, 

That  could  sae  sharply  wound, 
Has  wounded  Douglas  on  the  brow, 

Till  he  fell  to  the  ground. 

And  then  he  calld  on  his  little  foot-page, 

And  said  —  "  Run  speedilie, 
And  fetch  my  ain  dear  sister's  son, 

Sir  Hugh  Montgomery. 

"  My  nephew  guid  !  "  the  Douglas  said, 

"  What  recks  the  death  of  ane  ? 
Last  night  I  dreamed  a  dreary  dream, 

And  I  ken  the  day  's  thy  ain  ! 

"  My  wound  is  deep  ;   I  fain  wad  sleep ! 

Tak'  thou  the  vanguard  o'  the  three, 
And  hide  me  by  the  bracken  bush, 

That  grows  on  yonder  lilye  lee. 

"  O  bury  me  by  the  bracken  bush, 

Beneath  the  blooming  brier ; 
Let  never  living  mortal  ken 

That  ere  a  kindly  Scot  lies  here  ! " 

He  lifted  up  that  noble  lord, 

Wi'  the  saut  tear  in  his  ee  ; 
And  he  hid  him  in  the  bracken  bush, 

That  his  merrie  men  might  not  see. 


The  Battle  of  Otterbourne  7 

The  moon  was  clear,  the  day  drew  near, 

The  spears  in  flinders  flew ; 
But  mony  a  gallant  Englishman 

Ere  day  the  Scotsmen  slew. 

The  Gordons  good,  in  English  blude 

They  steepd  their  hose  and  shoon ; 
The  Lindsays  flew  like  fire  about, 

Till  a'  the  fray  was  done. 

The  Percy  and  Montgomery  met, 

That  either  of  other  was  fain  ; 
They  swapped  swords,  and  they  twa  swat, 

And  aye  the  blude  ran  doun  between. 

"  Now  yield  thee,  yield  thee,  Percy  !  "  he  said, 

Or  else  I  vow  I  '11  lay  thee  low  !  " 
"  To  whom  maun  I  yield,"  quoth  Earl  Percy, 

"  Now  that  I  see  it  maun  be  so  ?  " 

"  Thou  shalt  not  yield  to  lord  nor  loun, 

Nor  yet  shalt  thou  yield  to  me ; 
But  yield  thee  to  the  bracken-bush 

That  grows  upon  yon  lilye  lee  !  " 

"  I  will  not  yield  to  a  bracken-bush 

Nor  yet  will  I  yield  to  a  brier ; 
But  I  wad  yield  to  Earl  Douglas, 

Or  Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomery,  if  he  were  here." 

As  soon  as  he  knew  it  was  Montgomery 
He  struck  his  sword's  point  in  the  gronde ; 

The  Montgomery  was  a  courteous  knight, 
And  quickly  took  him  by  the  honde. 


Poetry  of  the  People 

This  deed  was  done  at  the  Otterbourne 

About  the  breaking  o'  the  day ; 
Earl  Douglas  was  buried  at  the  bracken-bush, 

And  the  Percy  led  captive  away. 


Ill 

fmtinjr  of  t&e  C&etotot 


The  Perse  owt  off  Northombarlonde, 

and  a  vowe  to  God  mayd  he 
That  he  wold  hunte  in  the  mowntayns 

off  Chyviat  within  days  thre, 
In  the  magger  of  dough  te  D  ogles, 

and  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 

he  sayd  he  wold  kyll,  and  cary  them  away  : 

"  Be  my  feth,"  sayd  the  dougheti  Doglas  agayn, 
"  I  wyll  let  that  hontyng  yf  that  I  may." 

Then  the  Perse  owt  off  Banborowe  cam, 

with  him  a  myghtee  meany, 

With  fifteen  hondrith  archares  bold  off  blood  and 
bone; 

the  wear  chosen  owt  of  shyars  thre. 

This  begane  on  a  Monday  at  morn, 

in  Cheviat  the  hillys  so  he  ; 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborn, 

it  wos  the  more  pitte. 


The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 

The  dryvars  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

for  to  reas  the  dear : 
Bomen  byckarte  uppone  the  bent 

with  ther  browd  aros  cleare. 

Then  the  wyld  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

on  every  syde  shear ; 
Greahondes  thorowe  the  grevis  glent, 

for  to  kyll  thear  dear. 

This  begane  in  Chyviat  the  hyls  abone, 

yerly  on  a  Monnyn-day  ; 
Be  that  it  drewe  to  the  oware  off  none, 

a  hondrith  fat  hartes  ded  ther  lay. 

The  blewe  a  morte  uppone  the  bent, 

the  semblyde  on  sydis  shear ; 
To  the  quyrry  then  the  Perse  went, 

to  se  the  bryttlynge  off  the  deare. 

He  sayd,  "It  was  the  Duglas  promys 

this  day  to  met  me  hear ; 
But  I  wyste  he  wolde  faylle,  verament ;  " 

a  great  oth  the  Perse  swear. 

At  the  laste  a  squyar  off  Northomberlonde 

lokyde  at  his  hand  full  ny ; 
He  was  war  a  the  doughetie  Doglas  commynge, 

with  him  a  myghtte  meany. 

Both  with  spear,  bylle,  and  brande, 

yt  was  a  myghtti  sight  to  se ; 
Hardyar  men,  both  off  hart  nor  hande, 

wear  not  in  Cristiante. 


io  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  wear  twenti  hondrith  spear-men  good, 

withoute  any  feale ; 
The  wear  borne  along  be  the  watter  a  Twyde, 

yth  bowndes  of  Tividale. 

"  Leave  of  the  brytlyng  of  the  dear,"  he  sayd, 
"  and  to  your  boys  lock  ye  tayk  good  hede  ; 

For  never  sithe  ye  wear  on  your  mothars  borne 
had  "ye  never  so  mickle  nede." 

The  dougheti  Dogglas  on  a  stede, 

he  rode  alle  his  men  beforne  ; 
His  armor  glytteryde  as  dyd  a  glede ; 

a  boldar  barne  was  never  born. 

"  Tell  me  whos  men  ye  ar,"  he  says, 

"  or  whos  men  that  ye  be : 
Who  gave  youe  leave  to  hunte  in  this  Chyviat  chays, 

in  the  spyt  of  myn  and  of  me." 

The  first  name  that  ever  him  an  answear  mayd, 

yt  was  the  good  lord  Perse  : 
"  We  wyll  not  tell  the  whoys  men  we  ar,"  he  says, 

"  nor  whos  men  that  we  be ; 
But  we  wyll  hounte  hear  in  this  chays, 

in  the  spyt  of  thyne  and  of  the. 

"  The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Chyviat 

we  have  kyld,  and  cast  to  carry  them  away : 

"  Be  my  troth,"  sayd  the  doughete  Dogglas  agayn, 
"  therfor  the  ton  of  us  shall  de  this  day." 

Then  sayd  the  doughte  Doglas 
unto  the  lord  Perse  : 


The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot  1 1 

"  To  kyll  alle  thes  giltles  men, 
alas,  it  wear  great  pitte  ! 

"  But,  Perse,  thowe  art  a  lord  of  lande, 
I  am  a  yerle  callyd  within  my  contre ; 

Let  all  our  men  uppone  a  parti  stande, 
and  do  the  battell  off  the  and  of  me." 

"  Nowe  Cristes  cors  on  his  crowne,"  sayd  the  lord 
Perse, 

"  who-so-ever  ther-to  says  nay ; 
Be  my  troth,  doughtte  Doglas,"  he  says, 

"  thow  shalt  never  se  that  day. 

"  Nethar  in  Ynglonde,  Skottlonde,  nar  France; 

nor  for  no  man  of  a  woman  born, 
But,  and  fortune  be  my  chance, 

I  dar  met  him,  on  man  for  on." 

Then  bespayke  a  squyar  off  Northombarlonde, 
Richard  Wytharyngton  was  his  nam : 

"  It  shall  never  be  told  in  Sothe-Ynglonde,"  he  says, 
"  to  Kyng  Kerry  the  Fourth  for  sham. 

"  I  wat  youe  byn  great  lordes  twaw, 

I  am  a  poor  squyar  of  lande  : 
I  wylle  never  se  my  captayne  fyght  on  a  fylde, 

and  stande  my  selffe  and  loocke  on, 
But  whylle  I  may  my  weppone  welde, 

I  wylle  not  fayle  both  hart  and  hande." 

That  day,  that  day,  that  dredfull  day! 
the  first  fit  here  I  fynde ; 


1 2  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  youe  wyll  here  any  mor  a  the  hountyng  a  the 

Chyviat, 
yet  ys  ther  mor  behynde. 

The  Yngglyshe  men  hade  ther  bowys  yebent, 

ther  hartes  wer  good  yenoughe  ; 
The  first  off  arros  that  the  shote  off, 

seven  skore  spear-men  the  sloughe. 

Yet  byddys  the  yerle  Doglas  uppon  the  bent, 

a  captayne  good  yenoughe, 
And  that  was  sene  verament, 

for  he  wrought  horn  both  woo  and  wouche. 

The  Dogglas  partyd  his  ost  in  thre, 

lyk  a  cheffe  cheften  off  pryde ; 
With  suar  spears  off  myghtte  tre, 

the  cum  in  on  every  syde : 

Thrughe  our  Yngglyshe  archery 

gave  many  a  wounde  fulle  wyde; 
Many  a  doughete  the  garde  to  dy, 

which  ganyde  them  no  pryde. 

The  Ynglyshe  men  let  ther  boys  be, 

and  pulde  owt  brandes  that  wer  brighte ; 

It  was  a  hevy  syght  to  se 
bryght  swordes  on  basnites  lyght. 

Thorowe  ryche  male  and  myneyeple, 
many  sterne  the  strocke  done  streght ; 

Many  a  freyke  that  was  fulle  fre, 
ther  undar  foot  dyd  lyght. 

At  last  the  Duglas  and  the  Perse  met, 
lyk  to  captayns  of  myght  and  of  mayne ; 


The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot  13 

The  swapte  togethar  tylle  the  both  swat, 
with  swordes  that  wear  of  fyn  myllan. 

Thes  worthe  freckys  for  to  fyght, 

ther-to  the  wear  fulle  fayne, 
Tylle  the  bloode  owte  off  thear  basnetes  sprente, 

as  ever  dyd  heal  or  rayn. 

"  Yelde  the,  Perse,"  sayde  the  Doglas, 

"  and  i  feth  I  shalle  the  brynge 
Wher  thowe  shalte  have  a  yerls  wagis 

of  Jamy  our  Skottish  kynge. 

"  Thou  shalte  have  thy  ransom  fre, 

I  hight  the  hear  this  thinge  ; 
For  the  manfullyste  man  yet  art  thowe 

that  ever  I  conqueryd  in  filde  fighttynge." 

"  Nay,"  sayd  the  lord  Perse, 

"  I  tolde  it  the  beforne, 
That  I  wolde  never  yeldyde  be 

to  no  man  of  a  woman  born." 

With  that  ther  cam  an  arrowe  hastely, 

forth  e  off  a  myghtte  wane ; 
Hit  hathe  strekene  the  yerle  Duglas 

in  at  the  brest-bane. 

Thorowe  lyvar  and  longe's  bathe 

the  sharpe  arrowe  ys  gane, 
That  never  after  in  all  his  lyffe-days 

he  spayke  mo  worde's  but  ane  : 

That  was,  "  Fyghte  ye,  my  myrry  men,  whyllys  ye 
may, 

for  my  lyff-days  ben  gan." 


14  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  Perse  leanyde  on  his  brande, 

and  sawe  the  Duglas  de  ; 
He  tooke  the  dede  mane  by  the  hande, 

and  sayd,  "  Wo  ys  me  for  the  ! 

"  To  have  savyde  thy  lyffe,  I  wolde  have  partyde  with 

my  landes  for  years  thre, 
For  a  better  man,  of  hart  nare  of  hande, 

was  nat  in  all  the  north  contre." 

Off  all  that  se  a  Skottishe  knyght, 

was  callyd  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry ; 

He  sawe  the  Duglas  to  the  deth  was  dyght, 
he  spendyd  a  spear,  a  trust!  tre. 

He  rod  uppone  a  corsiare 

throughe  a  hondrith  archery : 
He  never  stynttyde,  nar  never  blane, 

tylle  he  cam  to  the  good  lord  Perse. 
/ 

He  set  uppone  the  lorde  Perse 

a  dynte  that  was  full  soare ; 
With  a  suar  spear  of  a  myghtte*  tre 

clean  thorow  the  body  he  the  Perse"  ber, 

A  the  tothar  syde  that  a  man  myght  se 

a  large  cloth-yard  and  mare : 
Towe  bettar  captayns  wear  nat  in  Cristiante 

then  that  day  slan  wear  then 

An  archar  off  Northomberlonde 

say  slean  was  the  lord  Perse  ; 
He  bar  a  bende  bowe  in  his  hand, 

was  made  off  trusti  tre. 


The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot  15 

An  arow,  that  a  cloth-yarde  was  lang, 

to  the  harde  stele  halyde  he  ; 
A  dynt  that  was  both  sad  and  soar 

he  sat  on  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry. 

The  dynt  yt  was  both  sad  and  sar, 

that  he  of  Monggomberry  sete ; 
The  swane-fethars  that  his  arrowe  bar 

with  his  hart-blood  the  wear  wete. 

Ther  was  never  a  freake  wone  foot  wolde  fle, 

but  still  in  stour  dyd  stand, 
Heawyng  on  yche  othar,  whylle  the  myghte  dre, 

with  many  a  balfull  brande. 

This  battell  begane  in  Chyviat 

an  owar  befor  the  none, 
And  when  even-songe  bell  was  rang, 

The  battell  was  nat  half  done. 

The  tocke  .  .  .  on  ethar  hande 

be  the  lyght  off  the  mone ; 
Many  hade  no  strenght  for  to  stande, 

in  Chyviat  the  hillys  abon. 

Of  fifteen  hondrith  archars  of  Ynglonde 

went  away  but  seventi  and  thre ; 
Of  twenti  hondrith  spear-men  of  Skotlonde, 

but  even  five  and  fifti. 

But  all  wear  slayne  Cheviat  within  ; 

the  hade  no  strengthe  to  stand  on  hy ; 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborne, 

it  was  the  mor  pitte. 


1 6  Poetry  of  the  People 

Thear  was  slayne,  withe  the  lord  Perse, 

Sir  Johan  of  Agerstone, 
Ser  Rogar,  the  hinde  Hartly, 

Ser  Wyllyam,  the  bolde  Hearone. 

Ser  Jorg,  the  worthe  Loumle, 

a  knyghte  of  great  renowen, 
Ser  Raff,  the  ryche  Rugbe, 

with  dyntes  wear  beaten  dowene. 

For  Wetharryngton  my  harte  was  wo, 
that  ever  he  slayne  shulde  be ; 

For  when  both  his  leggis  wear  hewyne  in  to, 
yet  he  knyled  and  fought  on  hys  kny. 

Ther  was  slayne,  with  the  dougheti  Duglas, 
Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry, 

Ser  Davy  Lwdale,  that  worthe  was, 
his  sistar's  son  was  he. 

Ser  Charls  a  Murre  in  that  place, 

that  never  a  foot  wolde  fle ; 
Ser  Hewe  Maxwelle,  a  lorde  he  was, 

with  the  Doglas  dyd  he  dey. 

So  on  the  morrowe  the  mayde  them  byears 

off  birch  and  hasell  so  gray  ; 
Many  wedous,  with  wepyng  tears, 

cam  to  fache  ther  makys  away. 

Tivydale  may  carpe  off  care, 

Northombarlond  may  mayk  great  mon, 

For  towe  such  captayns  as  slayne  wear  thear, 
on  the  March-parti  shall  never  be  non. 


The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot  i 

Word  ys  commen  to  Eddenburrowe, 

to  Jamy  the  Skottische  kynge, 
That  dougheti  Duglas,  lyff-tenant  of  the  Marches, 

he  lay  slean  Chyviot  within. 

His  handdes  dyd  he  weal  and  wryng, 

he  sayd,  "  Alas,  and  wo  ys  me ! 
Such  an  othar  captayn  Skotland  within," 

he  sayd,  "  ye-feth  shuld  never  be." 

Worde  ys  commyn  to  lovly  Londone, 

till  the  fourth  Harry  our  kynge, 
That  lord  Perse,  leyff-tenante  of  the  Marchis, 

he  lay  slayne  Chyviat  within. 

"  God  have  merci  on  his  solle,"  sayde  Kyng  Harry, 

"  good  lord,  yf  thy  will  it  be  ! 
I  have  a  hondrith  captayns  in  Ynglonde,"  he  sayd, 

"  as  good  as  ever  was  he : 
But,  Perse,  and  I  brook  my  lyffe, 

thy  deth  well  quyte  shall  be." 

As  our  noble  kynge  mayd  his  avowe, 

lyke  a  noble  prince  of  renowen, 
For  the  deth  of  the  lord  Perse 

he  dyde  the  battell  of  Hombyll-down ; 

Wher  syx  and  thritte  Skottishe  knyghtes 

on  a  day  wear  beaten  down : 
Glendale  glytteryde  on  ther  armor  bryght, 

over  castille,  towar,  and  town. 

This  was  the  hontynge  off  the  Cheviat, 
that  tear  begane  this  spurn  ; 


1 8  Poetry  of  the  People 

Old  men  that  knowen  the  grownde  well  yenoughe 
call  it  the  battell  of  Otterburn. 

At  Otterburn  begane  this  spurne 

uppone  a  Monnynday ; 
Ther  was  the  doughte  Doglas  slean, 

the  Perse  never  went  away. 

Ther  was  never  a  tym  on  the  Marche-partes 
sen  the  Doglas  and  the  Perse  met, 

But  yt  ys  mervele  and  the  rede  blude  ronne  not, 
as  the  reane  doys  in  the  stret. 

Jhesue  Crist  our  balys  bete, 

and  to  the  blys  us  brynge  ! 
Thus  was  the  hountynge  of  the  Chivyat: 

God  send  us  alle  good  endyng ! 


IV 

(Euom  o 


It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  the  wind  blew  shrill  and  cauld, 
Said  Edom  o'  Gordon  to  his  men, 

"  We  maun  draw  to  a  hauld. 

"  And  whatna  hauld  sail  we  draw  to, 

My  merry  men  and  me  ? 
We  will  gae  to  the  house  o'  the  Rodes, 

To  see  that  fair  ladie." 


Edom  o'  Gordon  19 

The  ladie  stude  on  her  castle  wa', 

Beheld  baith  dale  and  doun, 
There  she  was  ware  of  a  host  o'  men 

Cam  riding  towards  the  toun. 

"  O  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men  a', 

0  see  ye  not  what  I  see? 
Methinks  I  see  a  host  of  men  — 

1  marvel  wha'  they  be." 

She  ween'd  it  had  been  her  ain  dear  lord 

As  he  cam  riding  hame  ; 
It  was  the  traitor,  Edom  o'  Gordon, 

Wha  recked  nor  sin  nor  shame. 

She  had  nae  suner  buskit  hersel, 

Nor  putten  on  her  goun, 
Till  Edom  o'  Gordon  and  his  men 

Were  round  about  the  toun. 

They  had  nae  suner  supper  set, 

Nae  suner  said  the  grace, 
Till  Edom  o'  Gordon  and  his  men 

Were  light  about  the  place. 

The  ladie  ran  to  her  tower  head, 

As  fast  as  she  could  hie, 
To  see  if,  by  her  fair  speeches, 

She  could  with  him  agree. 

As  sune  as  he  saw  the  ladie  fair, 

And  her  yetts  a'  lockit  fast, 
He  fell  into  a  rage  o'  wrath, 

And  his  look  was  all  aghast. 


20  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Come  doun  to  me,  ye  ladye  gay, 

Come  doun,  come  doun  to  me  ;• 
This  nicht  sail  ye  lie  within  my  arms, 

The  morn  my  bride  sail  be." 

"  I  winna  come  doun,  ye  fause  Gordon, 

I  winna  come  doun  to  thee ; 
I  winna  forsake  my  ain  dear  lord, 

That  is  sae  far  frae  me." 

"  Gie  owre  your  house,  ye  ladie  fair, 

Gie  owre  your  house  to  me  ; 
Or  I  sail  burn  yoursell  therein, 

But  and  your  babies  three." 

"  I  winna  gie  owre,  ye  false  Gordon, 

To  nae  sic  traitor  as  thee  ; 
And  if  ye  burn  my  ain  dear  babes, 

My  lord  sail  mak  ye  dree  ! 

"  But  reach  my  pistol,  Glaud,  my  man, 

And  charge  ye  weel  my  gun  ; 
For,  but  an  I  pierce  that  bluidy  butcher, 

We  a'  sail  be  undone." 

She  stude  upon  the  castle  wa', 

And  let  twa  bullets  flee ; 
She  miss'd  that  bluidy  butcher's  heart, 

And  only  razed  his  knee. 

"  Set  fire  to  the  house  !  "  quo  the  fause  Gordon, 

All  wude  wi'  dule  and  ire ; 
"  Fause  ladie  !  ye  sail  rue  that  shot, 

As  ye  burn  in  the  fire." 


Edom  o'  Gordon  21 

"  Wae  worth,  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  fee  ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa-stane, 

Lets  in  the  reek  to  me  ? 

"  And  e'en  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  hire  ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  my  grund-wa-stane, 

To  me  lets  in  the  fire?" 

"  Ye  paid  me  weel  my  hire,  lady, 

Ye  paid  me  weel  my  fee  ; 
But  now  I  'm  Edom  o'  Gordon's  man, 

Maun  either  do  or  dee." 

O  then  outspak  her  youngest  son, 

Sat  on  the  nourice'  knee  ; 
Says,  "  Mither  dear,  gie  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smithers  me." 

"  I  wad  gie  a'  my  gowd,  my  bairn, 

Sae  wad  I  a'  my  fee, 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  westlin'  wind, 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee !  " 

O  then  outspak  her  daughter  dear  — 

She  was  baith  jimp  and  sma'  — 
"  O  row  me  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 

And  tow  me  owre  the  wa'." 

They  row'd  her  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 

And  tow'd  her  owre  the  wa ' ; 
But  on  the  point  o'  Gordon's  spear 

She  gat  a  deadly  fa'. 


22  Poetry  of  the  People 

0  bonnie,  bonnie  was  her  mouth, 
And  cherry  were  her  cheeks  ; 

And  clear,  clear  was  her  yellow  hair, 
Whereon  the  red  bluid  dreeps. 

Then  wi'  his  spear  he  turned  her  owre, 

0  gin  her  face  was  wan  ! 

He  said,  "  You  are  the  first  that  e'er 

1  wish'd  alive  again." 

He  turned  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

0  gin  her  skin  was  white  ! 

"  I  might  hae  spared  that  bonnie  face, 
To  hae  been  some  man's  delight. 

"  Busk  and  boun,  my  merry  men  a', 
For  ill  dooms  I  do  guess ; 

1  canna  look  on  that  bonnie  face, 
As  it  lies  on  the  grass  ! " 

"  Wha  looks  to  freits,  my  master  deir, 
It 's  freits  will  follow  them  ; 

Let  it  ne'er  be  said  that  Edom  o'  Gordon 
Was  dauntit  by  a  dame." 

But  when  the  lady  saw  the  fire 
Come  flaming  owre  her  head, 

She  wept,  and  kiss'd  her  children  twain, 
Says,  "  Bairns,  we  been  but  dead." 

The  Gordon  then  his  bugle  blew, 

And  said,  "  Awa',  awa' ; 
The  house  o'  the  Rodes  is  a'  in  a  flame, 

1  hauld  it  time  to  ga'." 


Edom  o'  Gordon  23 

O  then  bespied  her  ain  dear  lord, 

As  he  came  owre  the  lea ; 
He  saw  his  castle  a'  in  a  lowe, 

Sae  far  as  he  could  see. 

Then  sair,  O  sair,  his  mind  misgave, 

And  a'  his  heart  was  wae ; 
"  Put  on,  put  on,  my  wichty  men, 

As  fast  as  ye  can  gae. 

"  Put  on,  put  on,  my  wichty  men, 

As  fast  as  ye  can  dri'e  ; 
For  he  that  is  hindmost  of  the  thrang, 

Shall  ne'er  get  gude  o'  me  !  " 

Then  some  they  rade,  and  some  they  ran, 

Fu'  fast  out  owre  the  bent ; 
But  ere  the  foremost  could  win  up, 

Baith  lady  and  babes  were  brent. 

He  wrang  his  hands,  he  rent  his  hair, 

And  wept  in  teenf  u'  mood  ; 
"  Ah,  traitors  !  for  this  cruel  deed, 

Ye  shall  weep  tears  of  bluid." 

And  after  the  Gordon  he  has  gane, 

Sae  fast  as  he  might  dri'e, 
And  soon  i'  the  Gordon's  foul  heart's  bluid, 

He  's  wroken  his  fair  ladie. 


24  Poetry  of  the  People 


Eobtn  hnoto  an*  Little  3fol)n 

When  Robin  Hood  was  about  twenty  years  old, 

With  a  hey  down,  down,  and  a  down ; 
He  happen'd  to  meet  Little  John, 
A  jolly  brisk  blade,  right  fit  for  the  trade, 
For  he  was  a  lusty  young  man. 

Though  he  was  call'd  Little,  his  limbs  they  were  large, 

And  his  stature  was  seven  foot  high  ; 
Wherever  he  came,  they  quaked  at  his  name, 

For  soon  he  would  make  them  to  fly. 

How  they  came  acquainted,  I  '11  tell  you  in  brief, 

If  you  would  but  listen  awhile  ; 
For  this  very  jest,  among  all  the  rest, 

I  think  it  may  cause  you  to  smile. 

For  Robin  Hood  said  to  his  jolly  bowmen, 

"  Pray  tarry  you  here  in  this  grove  ; 
And  see  that  you  all  observe  well  my  call, 

While  thorough  the  forest  I  rove. 

"  We  have  had  no  sport  for  these  fourteen  long  days, 

Therefore  now  abroad  will  I  go ; 
Now  should  I  be  beat,  and  cannot  retreat, 

My  horn  I  will  presently  blow." 

Then  did  he  shake  hands  with  his  merry  men  all, 

And  bid  them  at  present  good-by: 
Then,  as  near  the  brook  his  journey  he  took, 

A  stranger  he  chanced  to  espy. 


Robin  Hood  and  Little  John  25 

They  happened  to  meet  on  a  long  narrow  bridge, 

And  neither  of  them  would  give  way  ; 
Quoth  bold  Robin  Hood,  and  sturdily  stood, 

"  I  '11  shew  you  right  Nottingham-play." 

With  that  from  his  quiver  an  arrow  he  drew, 

A  broad  arrow  with  a  goose-wing. 
The  stranger  reply'd,  "  I  '11  liquor  thy  hide, 

If  thou  offerst  to  touch  the  string." 

Quoth  bold  Robin  Hood,  "  Thou  dost  prate  like  an  ass, 

For  were  I  to  bend  but  my  bow, 
I  could  send  a  dart,  quite  thro'  thy  proud  heart, 

Before  thou  couldst  strike  me  one  blow." 

"  Thou  talkst  like  a  coward,"  the  stranger  reply'd  ; 

"  Well  arm'd  with  a  long  bow  you  stand, 
To  shoot  at  my  breast,  while  I,  I  protest, 

Have  nought  but  a  staff  in  my  hand." 

"  The  name  of  a  coward,"  quoth  Robin,  "  I  scorn, 

Wherefore  my  long  bow  I  '11  lay  by, 
And  now,  for  thy  sake,  a  staff  will  I  take, 

The  truth  of  thy  manhood  to  try." 

Then  Robin  Hood  stept  to  a  thicket  of  trees, 

And  chose  him  a  staff  of  ground  oak ; 
Now  this  being  done,  away  he  did  run 

To  the  stranger,  and  merrily  spoke : 

"  Lo  !  see  my  staff  is  lusty  and  tough, 

Now  here  on  the  bridge  we  will  play ; 
Whoever  falls  in,  the  other  shall  win, 

The  battle,  and  so  we  '11  away," 


2  6  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  With  all  my  whole  heart,"  the  stranger  reply'd, 

"  I  scorn  in  the  least  to  give  out "  ; 
This  said,  they  fell  to  't  without  more  dispute, 

And  their  staffs  they  did  flourish  about. 

At  first  Robin  he  gave  the  stranger  a  bang, 
So  hard  that  he  made  his  bones  ring : 

The  stranger  he  said,  "  This  must  be  repaid, 
I  '11  give  you  as  good  as  you  bring. 

"  So  long  as  I  am  able  to  handle  a  staff, 
To  die  in  your  debt,  friend,  I  scorn." 

Then  to  it  each  goes,  and  followed  their  blows, 
As  if  they  'd  been  threshing  of  corn. 

The  stranger  gave  Robin  a  crack  on  the  crown, 
Which  caused  the  blood  to  appear ; 

Then  Robin  enraged,  more  fiercely  engaged, 
And  followed  his  blows  more  severe. 

So  thick  and  so  fast  did  he  lay  it  on  him, 

With  a  passionate  fury  and  ire ; 
At  every  stroke  he  made  him  to  smoke, 

As  if  he  had  been  all  on  fire. 

O  then  into  fury  the  stranger  he  grew, 

And  gave  him  a  damnable  look, 
And  with  it  a  blow,  that  laid  him  full  low, 

And  tumbled  him  into  the  brook. 

"  I  prithee,  good  fellow,  where  art  thou  now  ?  " 

The  stranger,  in  laughter,  he  cried. 
Quoth  bold  Robin  Hood,  "  Good  faith,  in  the  flood, 

And  floating  along  with  the  tide. 


Robin  Hood  and  Little  John  27 

"  I  needs  must  acknowledge  thou  art  a  brave  soul, 

With  thee  I  '11  no  longer  contend ; 
For  needs  must  I  say,  thou  hast  got  the  day, 

Our  battle  shall  be  at  an  end." 

Then  unto  the  bank  he  did  presently  wade, 

And  pulled  himself  out  by  a  thorn  ; 
Which  done,  at  the  last  he  blowed  a  loud  blast 

Straightway  on  his  fine  bugle-horn  : 

The  echo  of  which  through  the  valleys  did  fly, 

At  which  his  stout  bowmen  appeared, 
All  clothed  in  green,  most  gay  to  be  seen, 

So  up  to  their  master  they  steered. 

"  O,  what's  the  matter?"  quoth  William  Stutly, 
"  Good  master  you  are  wet  to  the  skin." 

"  No  matter,"  quoth  he,  "  the  lad  which  you  see 
In  fighting  hath  tumbled  me  in." 

"  He  shall  not  go  scot-free,"  the  others  reply'd. 

So  straight  they  were  seizing  him  there, 
To  duck  him  likewise :  but  Robin  Hood  cries, 

"  He  is  a  stout  fellow  ;  forbear. 

"  There 's  no  one  shall  wrong  thee,  friend,  be  not  afraid ; 

These  bowmen  upon  me  do  wait ; 
There 's  three  score  and  nine  ;  if  thou  wilt  be  mine, 

Thou  shalt  have  my  livery  straight, 

"  And  other  accoutrements  fit  for  a  man ; 

Speak  up,  jolly  blade,  never  fear : 
I  '11  teach  you  also  the  use  of  the  bow, 

To  shoot  at  the  fat  fallow  deer." 


28  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  O,  here  is  my  hand,"  the  stranger  reply'd, 
"  I  '11  serve  you  with  all  my  whole  heart ; 

My  name  is  John  Little,  a  man  of  good  mettle ; 
Ne'er  doubt  me,  for  I  '11  play  my  part." 

"  His  name  shall  be  alter'd,"  quoth  William  Study, 

"  And  I  will  his  godfather  be  : 
Prepare  then  a  feast,  and  none  of  the  least 

For  we  will  be  merry,"  quoth  he. 

They  presently  fetched  him  a  brace  of  fat  does, 
With  humming  strong  liquor  likewise  ; 

They  loved  what  was  good ;  so  in  the  green  wood, 
This  pretty  sweet  babe  they  baptize. 

He  was,  I  must  tell  you,  but  seven  foot  high, 

And,  may  be,  an  ell  in  the  waist; 
A  sweet  pretty  lad  :  much  feasting  they  had  ; 

Bold  Robin  the  christening  graced, 

With  all  his  bowmen,  which  stood  in  a  ring, 
And  were  of  the  Nottingham  breed ; 

Brave  Stutly  came  then,  with  seven  yeomen, 
And  did  in  this  manner  proceed : 

"  This  infant  was  called  John  Little,"  quoth  he ; 

"  Which  name  shall  be  changed  anon : 
The  words  we'll  transpose  ;  so  wherever  he  goes, 

His  name  shall  be  called  Little  John." 

They  all  with  a  shout  made  the  elements  ring ; 

So  soon  as  the  office  was  o'er, 
To  feasting  they  went,  with  true  merriment, 

And  tippled  strong  liquor  gillore. 


Robin  Hood  Rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons     29 

Then  Robin  he  took  the  pretty  sweet  babe, 

And  clothed  him  from  top  to  the  toe, 
In  garments  of  green,  most  gay  to  be  seen, 

And  gave  him  a  curious  long  bow. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  an  archer  as  well  as  the  best, 

And  range  in  the  green  wood  with  us ; 
Where  we  '11  not  want  gold  nor  silver,  behold, 

While  bishops  have  ought  in  their  purse. 

"  We  live  here  like  'squires,  or  lords  of  renown, 

Without  e'er  a  foot  of  free  land ; 
We  feast  on  good  cheer,  with  wine,  ale,  and  beer, 

And  everything  at  our  command." 

Then  music  and  dancing  did  finish  the  day ; 

At  length,  when  the  sun  waxed  low, 
Then  all  the  whole  train  the  grove  did  refrain, 

And  unto  their  caves  they  did  go. 

And  so,  ever  after,  as  long  as  he  liv'd, 

Although  he  was  proper  and  tall, 
Yet,  nevertheless,  the  truth  to  express, 

Still  Little  John  they  did  him  call. 


VI 
Robin  hoott  Resetting  t&e  OliSoto'e  Owe  Sonet 

There  are  twelve  months  in  all  the  year, 

As  I  hear  many  men  say, 
But  the  merriest  month  in  all  the  year 

Is  the  merry  month  of  May. 


30  Poetry  of  the  People 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

With  a  link  a  down  and  a  day, 
And  there  he  met  a  silly  old  woman, 

Was  weeping  on  the  way. 

"  What  news  ?  what  news,  thou  silly  old  woman  ? 

What  news  hast  thou  for  me  ?  " 
Said  she,  "  There  's  my  three  sons  in  Nottingham  town 

To-day  condemned  to  die." 

"  O,  have  they  parishes  burnt  ?  "  he  said, 

"  Or  have  they  ministers  slain? 
Or  have  they  robbed  any  virgin  ? 

Or  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en  ?  " 

"  They  have  no  parishes  burnt,  good  sir, 

Nor  yet  have  ministers  slain, 
Nor  have  they  robbed  any  virgin, 

Nor  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en." 

"  O,  what  have  they  done  ?  "  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  I  pray  thee  tell  to  me." 
"  It 's  for  slaying  of  the  king's  fallow-deer, 

Bearing  their  long  bows  with  thee." 

"  Dost  thou  not  mind,  old  woman,"  he  said, 

"  How  thou  madest.me  sup  and  dine  ? 
By  the  truth  of  my  body,"  quoth  bold  Robin  Hood, 

"  You  could  not  tell  it  in  better  time." 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

With  a  link  a  down  and  a  day, 
And  there  he  met  with  a  silly  old  palmer, 

Was  walking  along  the  highway. 


Robin  Hood  Rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons     3 1 

"  What  news  ?  what  news,  thou  silly  old  man  ? 

What  news,  I  do  thee  pray  ?  " 
Said  he,  "  Three  squires  in  Nottingham  town 

Are  condemned  to  die  this  day." 

"  Come  change  thy  apparel  with  me,  old  man, 

Come  change  thy  apparel  for  mine ; 
Here  is  forty  shillings  in  good  silver, 

Go  drink  it  in  beer  or  wine." 

"  O,  thine  apparel  is  good,"  he  said, 

"  And  mine  is  ragged  and  torn  ; 
Wherever  you  go,  wherever  you  ride, 

Laugh  not  an  old  man  to  scorn." 

"  Come  change  thy  apparel  with  me,  old  churl, 
Come  change  thy  apparel  with  mine  ; 

Here  are  twenty  pieces  of  good  broad  gold, 
Go  feast  thy  brethren  with  wine." 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hat, 

It  stood  full  high  on  the  crown : 
"  The  first  bold  bargain  that  I  come  at, 

It  shall  make  thee  come  down." 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  cloak, 

Was  patched  black,  blew,  and  red  ; 
He  thought  it  no  shame  all  the  day  long, 

To  wear  the  bags  of  bread. 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  breeks, 

Was  patched  from  leg  to  side : 
"  By  the  truth  of  my  body,"  bold  Robin  can  say, 

"  This  man  loved  little  pride." 


3  2  Poetry  of  the  People 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hose, 

Were  patched  from  knee  to  wrist : 
"  By  the  truth  of  my  body,"  said  bold  Robin  Hood, 

«  I  'd  laugh  if  I  had  any  list." 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  shoes, 

Were  patched  both  beneath  and  aboon ; 

Then  Robin  Hood  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
"  It 's  good  habit  that  makes  a  man." 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

With  a  link  a  down  and  a  down, 
And  there  he  met  with  the  proud  sheriff, 

Was  walking  along  the  town. 

"  Save  you,  save  you,  sheriff !  "  he  said ; 

"  Now  heaven  you  save  and  see  ! 
And  what  will  you  give  to  a  silly  old  man 

To-day  will  your  hangman  be? " 

"  Some  suits,  some  suits,"  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  Some  suits  I  '11  give  to  thee  ; 
Some  suits,  some  suits,  and  pence  thirteen, 

To-day  's  a  hangman's  fee." 

Then  Robin  he  turns  him  round  about, 

And  jumps  from  stock  to  stone : 
"  By  the  truth  of  my  body,"  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  That 's  well  jumpt,  thou  nimble  old  man." 

"  I  was  ne'er  a  hangman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  yet  intends  to  trade  ; 
But  curst  be  he,"  said  bold  Robin, 

"  That  first  a  hangman  was  made  1 


Robin  Hood  Rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons     33 

"  I  Ve  a  bag  for  meal,  and  a  bag  for  malt, 

And  a  bag  for  barley  and  corn ; 
A  bag  for  bread,  and  a  bag  for  beef, 

And  a  bag  for  my  little  small  horn. 

"  I  have  a  horn  in  my  pocket, 

I  got  it  from  Robin  Hood, 
And  still  when  I  set  it  to  my  mouth, 

For  thee  it  blows  little  good." 

"  O,  wind  thy  horn,  thou  proud  fel!6w, 

Of  thee  I  have  no  doubt. 
I  wish  that  thou  give  such  a  blast, 

Till  both  thy  eyes  fall  out." 

The  first  loud  blast  that  he  did  blow, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  shrill ; 
A  hundred  and  fifty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  riding  over  the  hill. 

The  next  loud  blast  that  he  did  give, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  amain, 
And  quickly  sixty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  shining  over  the  plain. 

"  O,  who  are  these,"  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  Come  tripping  over  the  lee  ?  " 
"They're  my  attendants,"  brave  Robin  did  say; 

"  They  '11  pay  a  visit  to  thee." 

They  took  the  gallows  from  the  slack, 

They  set  it  in  the  glen, 
They  hanged  the  proud  sheriff  on  that, 

Released  their  own  three  men. 


34  Poetry  of  the  People 

VII 
Eoiiin  INtrtj  an*  &IUn  a  £)ale 


Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  loves  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outlaw, 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Robin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood, 
All  under  the  green-wood  tree, 

There  he  was  ware  of  a  brave  young  man, 
As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clothed  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay  ; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chanted  a  roundelay. 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood, 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before, 

It  was  clean  cast  away  ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetcht  a  sigh, 

"  Alack  and  a  well  a  day  !  " 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Nick  the  miller's  son, 
Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 

When  as  he  see  them  come. 


Robin  Hood  and  Allin  a  Dale  35 

"  Stand  off,  stand  off,"  the  young  man  said, 

"  What  is  your  will  with  me  ?  " 
"  You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 

Under  yon  green-wood  tree." 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 

Robin  askt  him  courteously, 
"  O  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare 

For  my  merry  men  and  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 

"  But  five  shillings  and  a  ring; 
And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years, 

To  have  it  at  my  wedding. 

"  Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  is  now  from  me  tane, 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain." 

"  What  is  thy  name?  "  then  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail :  " 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young  man, 

"  My  name  it  is  Allin  a  Dale." 

"  What  wilt  thou  give  me,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"In  ready  gold  or  fee, 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  then  quoth  the  young  man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee, 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 


36  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  any  guile  :  " 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young  man, 

"  It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Robin  he  hasted  over  the  plain, 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  lin, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church, 

Where  Allin  should  keep  his  wedding. 

"  What  dost  thou  do  here  ?  "  the  bishop  he  said, 

"  I  prithee  now  tell  to  me  :  " 
"  I  am  a  bold  harper,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

"  O  welcome,  O  welcome,"  the  bishop  he  said, 

"  That  musick  best  pleaseth  me  ;  " 
"  You  shall  have  no  musick,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  Till  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  I  see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  grave  and  old, 
And  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 

"  This  is  not  a  fit  match,"  quoth  bold  Robin  Hood, 

"  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here ; 
For  since  we  are  come  unto  the  church, 

The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear." 

Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  or  three ; 
When  four  and  twenty  bowmen  bold 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 


Robin  Hood  and  Allin  a  Dale  37 

And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Marching  all  on  a  row, 
The  first  man  was  Allin  a  Dale, 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"  This  is  thy  true  love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"  Young  Allin,  as  I  hear  say ; 
And  you  shall  be  married  at  this  same  time, 

Before  we  depart  away." 

«  That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  said, 

"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand ; 
They  shall  be  three  times  askt  in  the  church, 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 

Robin  Hood  pulld  off  the  bishop's  coat, 

And  put  it  upon  Little  John  ; 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  Robin  said, 

"  This  cloath  doth  make  thee  a  man." 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire, 

The  people  began  for  to  laugh ; 
He  askt  them  seven  times  in  the  church, 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

"  Who  gives  me  this  maid  ?  "  then  said  Little  John  ; 

Quoth  Robin,  «  That  do  I, 
And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allin  a  Dale 

Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 

And  thus  having  ended  this  merry  wedding, 

The  bride  lookt  as  fresh  as  a  queen, 
And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 


38  Poetry  of  the  People 

VIII 

fiobtn  boDli  anU  the  King; 
THE  SEVENTH  FYTTE  OF  A  GEST  OF  ROBIN  HOOD 

The  kynge  came  to  Notynghame, 
With  knyghtes  in  grete  araye, 

For  to  take  that  gentyll  knyght 
And  Robyn  Hode,  and  yf  he  may. 

He  asked  men  of  that  countre, 

After  Robyn  Hode, 
And  after  that  gentyll  knyght, 

That  was  so  bolde  and  stout. 

Whan  they  had  tolde  hym  the  case 
Our  kynge  understode  ther  tale, 

And  seased  in  his  honde 
The  knyghtes  londes  all. 

All  the  passe  of  Lancasshyre 

He  went  both  ferre  and  nere, 
Tyll  he  came  to  Plomton  Parke ; 

He  faylyd  many  of  his  dere. 

There  our  kynge  was  wont  to  se 

Herdes  many  one, 
He  coud  unneth  fynde  one  dere, 

That  bare  ony  good  home. 

The  kynge  was  wonder  wroth  with  all, 

And  swore  by  the  Trynyte, 
"  I  wolde  I  had  Robyn  Hode, 

With  eyen  I  myght  hym  se. 


Robin  Hood  and  the  King  39 

"  And  he  that  wolde  smyte  of  the  knyghtes  hede, 

And  brynge  it  to  me, 
He  shall  have  the  knyghtes  londes, 

Syr  Rycharde  at  the  Le. 


"  I  gyve  **•  hym  with  my  charter, 

And  sele  it  with  my  honde, 
To  have  and  holde  for  ever  more, 

In  all  mery  Englonde." 

Than  bespake  a  fayre  olde  knyght, 

That  was  treue  in  his  fay  : 
"  A,  my  leege  lorde  the  kynge, 

One  worde  I  shall  you  say. 

"  There  is  no  man  in  this  countre 
May  have  the  knyghtes  londes, 

Whyle  Robyn  Hode  may  ryde  or  gone, 
And  bere  a  bowe  in  his  hondes, 

"  That  he  ne  shall  lese  his  hede, 
That  is  the  best  ball  in  his  hode  : 

Give  it  no  man,  my  lorde  the  kynge, 
That  ye  wyll  any  good." 

Half  a  yere  dwelled  our  comly  kynge 
In  Notyngham,  and  well  more  ; 

Coude  he  not  here  of  Robyn  Hode, 
In  what  countre  that  he  were. 

But  alway  went  good  Robyn 

By  halke  and  eke  by  hyll, 
And  alway  slewe  the  kynges  dere, 

And  welt  them  at  his  wyll. 


40  Poetry  of  the  People 

Than  bespake  a  proude  fostere, 
That  stode  by  our  kynges  kne : 

"  Yf  ye  wyll  see  good  Robyn, 
Ye  must  do  after  me. 

"  Take  fyve  of  the  best  knyghtes 

That  be  in  your  lede, 
And  'walke  downe  by  yon  abbay, 

And  gete  you  monke's  wede. 

"  And  I  wyll  be  your  ledes-man, 

And  lede  you  the  way, 
And  or  ye  come  to  Notyngham, 

Myn  hede  then  dare  I  lay, 

"  That  ye  shall  mete  with  good  Robyn, 

On  lyve  yf  that  he  be; 
,       Or  ye  come  to  Notyngham, 

With  eyen  ye  shall  hym  se." 

Full  hastely  our  kynge  was  dyght, 
So  were  his  knyghtye's  fyve, 

Everych  of  them  in  monke's  wede, 
And  hasted  them  thyder  blyve. 

Our  kynge  was  grete  above  his  cole, 
A  brode  hat  on  his  crowne, 

Ryght  as  he  were  abbot-lyke, 
They  rode  up  into  the  towne. 

Styf  botes  our  kynge  had  on, 

Forsoth  as  I  you  say ; 
He  rode  syngynge  to  grene  wode, 

The  covent  was  clothed  in  graye. 


Robin  Hood  ana  the  King  41 

His  male-hors  and  his  grete  somers 

Folowed  our  kynge  behynde, 
Tyll  they  came  to  grene  wode, 

A  myle  under  the  lynde. 

There  they  met  with  good  Robyn, 

Stondynge  on  the  waye, 
And  so  dyde  many  a  bolde  archere, 

For  soth  as  I  you  say. 

Robyn  toke  the  kynges  hors, 

Hastely  in  that  stede, 
And  sayd,  "  Syr  abbot,  by  your  leve, 

A  whyle  ye  must  abyde. 

"  We  be  yemen  of  this  foreste, 

Under  the  grene-wode  tre  ; 
We  lyve  by  our  kynges  dere, 

Other  shift  have  not  wee. 

"  And  ye  have  chyrches  and  rentes  both. 

And  gold  full  grete  plente  ; 
Gyve  us  some  of  your  spendynge, 

For  saynt  charyte." 

Than  bespake  our  cumly  kynge, 

Anone  than  sayd  he  ; 
"  I  brought  no  more  to  grene  wode 

But  forty  pounde  with  me. 

"  I  have  layne  at  Notyngham, 

This  fourtynyght  with  our  kynge, 
And  spent  I  have  full  moche  good 

On  many  a  grete  lordynge. 


42  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  And  I  have  but  forty  pounde, 

No  more  than  have  I  me : 
But  if  I  had  an  hondred  pounde, 

I  would  give  it  to  thee." 

Robyn  toke  the  forty  pounde, 
And  departed  it  in  two  partye ; 

Halfendell  he  gave  his  mery  men, 
And  bad  them  mery  to  be. 

Full  curteysly  Robyn  gan  say ; 

"  Syr,  have  this  for  your  spendyng ; 
We  shall  mete  another  day." 

"  Gramercy,"  than  sayd  our  kynge. 

"  But  well  the  greteth  Edwarde,  our  kynge, 

And  sent  to  the  his  scale, 
And  byddeth  the  com  to  Notyngham, 

Both  to  mete  and  mele." 

He  toke  out  the  brode  targe, 

And  sone  he  lete  hym  se ; 
Robyn  coud  his  courteysy, 

And  set  hym  on  his  kne. 

"  I  love  no  man  in  all  the  worlde 

So  well  as  I  do  my  kynge  ; 
Welcome  is  my  lorde's  scale ; 

And,  monke,  for  thy  tydynge, 

"  Syr  abbot,  for  thy  tydynges, 
To  day  thou  shalt  dyne  with  me, 

For  the  love  of  my  kynge, 
Under  my  trystell-tre." 


Robin  Hood  and  the  King  43 

Forth  he  lad  our  comly  kynge, 

Full  fayre  by  the  honde ; 
Many  a  dere  there  was  slayne, 

And  full  fast  dyghtande. 

Robyn  toke  a  full  grete  home, 

And  loude  he  gan  bio  we; 
Seven  score  of  wyght  yonge  men 

Came  redy  on  a  rowe. 

All  they  kneled  on  theyr  kne, 

Full  fayre  before  Robyn : 
The  kynge  sayd  hym  selfe  untyll, 

And  swore  by  Saynt  Austyn, 

"  Here  is  a  wonder  semely  sight ; 

Me  thynketh,  by  Goddes  pyne, 
His  men  are  more  at  his  byddynge 

Then  my  men  be  at  myn." 

Full  hastely  was  theyr  dyner  idyght, 

And  therto  gan  they  gone ; 
They  served  our  kynge  with  all  theyr  myght, 

Both  Robyn  and  Lytell  Johan. 

Anone  before  our  kynge  was  set 

The  fatte  venyson, 
The  good  whyte  brede,  the  good  rede  wyne, 

And  therto  the  fyne  ale  and  browne. 

"  Make  good  chere,"  said  Robyn, 

"  Abbot,  for  charyte ; 

And  for  this  ylke  tydynge, 

Blyssed  mote  thou  be. 


44  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Now  shalte  thou  se  what  lyfe  we  lede, 

Or  thou  hens  wende ; 
Than  thou  may  enfourme  our  kynge, 

Whan  ye  togyder  lende." 

Up  they  sterte  all  in  hast, 

Theyr  bowes  were  smartly  bent ; 

Our  kynge  was  never  so  sore  agast, 
He  wende  to  have  be  shente. 

Two  yerdes  there  were  up  set, 

Thereto  gan  they  gange  ; 
By  fyfty  pase,  our  kynge  sayd, 

The  merkes  were  to  longe. 

On  every  syde  a  rose-garlonde, 

They  shot  under  the  lyne : 
"  Who  so  fayleth  of  the  rose-garlonde,"  sayd 

Robyn, 
"  His  takyll  he  shall  tyne, 

"  And  yelde  it  to  his  mayster, 

Be  it  never  so  fyne  ; 
For  no  man  wyll  I  spare, 

So  drynke  I  ale  or  wyne ; 

"  And  bere  a  buffet  on  his  hede, 

I-wys  ryght  all  bare :  " 
And  all  that  fell  in  Robyns  lote, 

He  smote  them  wonder  sare. 

Twyse  Robyn  shot  aboute, 
And  ever  he  cleved  the  wande, 

And  so  dyde  good  Gylberte 
With  the  whyte  hande. 


Robin  Hood  and  the  King  45 

Lytell  Johan  and  good  Scathelocke, 

For  nothynge  wolde  they  spare  ; 
When  they  fayled  of  the  garlonde, 

Robyn  smote  them  full  sare. 

At  the  last  shot  that  Robyn  shot, 

For  all  his  frendes  fare, 
Yet  he  fayled  of  the  garlonde 

Thre  fyngers  and  mare. 

Than  bespake  good  Gylberte, 

And  thus  he  gan  say ; 
"  Mayster,"  he  sayd,  "  your  takyll  is  lost, 

Stande  forth  and  take  your  pay." 

"  If  it  be  so,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  That  may  no  better  be, 
Syr  abbot,  I  delyver  the  myn  arowe, 

I  pray  the,  syr,  serve  thou  me." 

"  It  falleth  not  for  myn  ordre,"  sayd  our  kynge, 

"  Robyn,  by  thy  leve, 
For  to  smyte  no  good  yeman, 

For  doute  I  sholde  hym  greve." 

"  Smyte  on  boldely,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  I  give  the  large  leve :  " 
Anone  our  kynge,  with  that  worde, 

He  folde  up  his  sieve, 

And  sych  a  buffet  he  gave  Robyn, 

To  grounde  he  yede  full  nere : 
"  I  make  myn  avowe  to  God,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  Thou  arte  a  stalworthe  frere. 


46  Poeiry  of  the  People 

"  There  is  pith  in  thyn  arme,"  sayd  Robyn, 
"  I  trowe  thou  canst  well  shete  ;  " 

Thus  our  kynge  and  Robyn  Hode 
Togeder  gan  they  mete. 

Robyn  behelde  our-comly  kynge 

Wystly  in  the  face, 
So  dyde  Syr  Rycharde  at  the  Le, 

And  kneled  downe  in  that  place. 

And  so  dyde  all  the  wylde  outlawes, 

Whan  they  se  them  knele : 
"  My  lorde  the  kynge  of  Englonde, 

Now  I  knowe  you  well." 

"  Mercy  then,  Robyn,"  sayd  our  kynge, 

"  Under  your  trystyll-tre, 
Of  thy  goodnesse  and  thy  grace, 

For  my  men  and  me !  " 

"  Yes,  for  God,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  And  also  God  me  save, 
I  aske  mercy,  my  lorde  the  kynge, 

And  for  my  men  I  crave." 

"  Yes,  for  God,"  than  sayd  our  kynge, 

"  And  therto  sent  I  me, 
With  that  thou  leve  the  grene  wode, 

And  all  thy  company  ; 

"  And  come  home,  syr,  to  my  courte, 

And  there  dwell  with  me." 
"  I  make  myn  avowe  to  God,"  sayd  Robyn, 

•'And  ryght  so  shall  it  be. 


Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial  47 

"  I  wyll  come  to  your  courte, 

Your  servyse  for  to  se, 
And  brynge  with  me  of  my  men 

Seven  score  and  thre. 

"  But  me  lyke  well  your  servyse, 

I  wyll  come  agayne  full  soone. 
And  shote  at  the  donne  dere, 

As  I  am  wonte  to  done." 


IX 
Robin  Jxroto's  tDratb  anfi  -Burial 


When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John, 
Down  a  down,  a  down,  a  down, 
Went  o'er  yon  bank  of  broom, 

Said  Robin  Hood  bold  to  Little  John, 
"  We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound  :  " 
Hey  down,  a  down,  a  down, 

"  But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more, 
My  broad  arrows  will  not  flee  ; 

But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below, 
Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me." 

Now  Robin  is  to  fair  Kirkley  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  win  ; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear, 

He  was  taken  very  ill. 

And  when  that  he  came  to  fair  Kirkley-hall, 

He  knocked  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 

For  to  let  bold  Rpbin  in, 


48  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Robin,"  she  said, 

"  And  drink  some  beer  with  me  ?  " 
"  No,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink, 

Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee." 

"  Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin,"  she  said, 

"  Which  you  did  never  see, 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein, 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be." 

She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand, 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room, 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood, 

While  one  drop  of  blood  would  run  down. 

She  blooded  him  in  a  vein  of  the  arm, 

And  locked  him  up  in  the  room ; 
Then  did  he  bleed  all  the  livelong  day, 

Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  there, 

Thinking  for  to  get  down ; 
He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 

He  could  not  get  him  down. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn, 

Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee  ; 
He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth, 

And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 

Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  a  tree, 
"  I  fear  my  master  is  now  near  dead, 

He  blows  so  wearily." 


Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial  49 

Then  Little  John  to  fair  Kirkley  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  dree ; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkley-hall, 

He  broke  locks  two  or  three : 

Until  he  came  bold  Robin  to, 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee  : 
"  A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  Little  John, 

"  Master,  I  beg  of  thee." 

"  What  is  that  boon,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  Little  John,  thou  begs  of  me  ?  " 
"  It  is  to  burn  fair  Kirkley-hall, 

And  all  their  nunnery." 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  That  boon  I  '11  not  grant  thee  ; 
I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  man  in  woman's  company. 

"  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Nor  at  my  end  shall  it  be  ; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand, 

And  a  broad  arrow  I  '11  let  flee ; 
And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up, 

There  shall  my  grave  digg'd  be. 

"  Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head, 

And  another  at  my  feet ; 
And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side, 

Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 
And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green, 

Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 


Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 
With  under  my  head  a  green  sod ; 

That  they  may  say,  when  I  am  dead, 
Here  lies  bold  Robin  Hood." 

These  words  they  readily  promised  him, 
Which  did  bold  Robin  please  ; 

And  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Near  to  the  fair  Kirkleys. 


"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  now,  Lord  Douglas,"  she  says, 
"  And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright ; 

Let  it  never  be  said  that  a  daughter  of  thine 
Was  married  to  a  lord  under  night. 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  seven  bold  sons, 
And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright, 

And  take  better  care  of  your  youngest  sister, 
For  your  eldest 's  awa  the  last  night." 

He  's  mounted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed, 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  gray, 
With  a  bugelet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side, 

And  lightly  they  rode  away. 

Lord  William  lookit  o'er  his  left  shoulder, 

To  see  what  he  could  see, 
And  there  he  spy'd  her  seven  brethren  bold, 

Come  riding  over  the  lee. 


The  Douglas  Tragedy  §  i 

"  Light  down,  light  down,  Lady  Margret,"  he  said, 

"And  hold  my  steed  in  your  hand, 
Until  that  against  your  seven  brethren  bold, 

And  your  father,  I  mak  a  stand." 

She  held  his  steed  in  her  milk-white  hand, 

And  never  shed  one  tear, 
Until  that  she  saw  her  seven  brethren  fa', 

And  her  father  hard  fighting,  who  lov'd  her  so  dear. 

"  O  hold  your  hand,  Lord  William  !  "  she  said, 
"  For  your  strokes  they  are  wondrous  sair ; 

True  lovers  I  can  get  many  a  ane, 
But  a  father  I  can  never  get  mair." 

O  she  's  ta'en  out  her  handkerchief, 

It  was  o'  the  holland  sae  fine, 
And  aye  she  dighted  her  father's  bloody  wounds, 

That  were  redder  than  the  wine. 

"  O  chuse,  O  chuse,  Lady  Margret,"  he  said, 

"  O  whether  will  ye  gang  or  bide  ?  " 
"  I  '11  gang,  I  '11  gang,  Lord  William,"  she  said, 

"  For  ye  have  left  me  nae  other  guide." 

He  's  lifted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed, 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  gray, 
With  a  bugelet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side, 

And  slowly  they  baith  rade  away. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade, 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Until  they  came  to  yon  wan  water, 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 


5  3  Poetry  of  the  People 

They  lighted  down  to  talc'  a  drink 

Of  the  spring  that  ran  sae  clear, 
And  down  the  stream  ran  his  gude  heart's  blood, 

And  sair  she  gan  to  fear. 

"  Hold  up,  hold  up,  Lord  William,"  she  says, 

"  For  I  fear  that  you  are  slain." 
"  'T  is  naething  but  the  shadow  of  my  scarlet  cloak, 

That  shines  in  the  water  sae  plain." 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade, 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Until  they  cam'  to  his  mother's  ha'  door, 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 

•'  Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,"  he  says, 

"  Get  up,  and  let  me  in  ! 
Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,"  he  says, 

"  For  this  night  my  fair  lady  I  've  win. 

"  O  mak  my  bed,  lady  mother,"  he  says, 

"  O  mak  it  braid  and  deep, 
And  lay  Lady  Margret  close  at  my  back, 

And  the  sounder  I  will  sleep." 

Lord  William  was  dead  lang  ere  midnight, 

Lady  Margret  lang  ere  day, 
And  all  true  lovers  that  go  thegither, 

May  they  have  mair  luck  than  they ! 

Lord  William  was  buried  in  St.  Mary's  kirk, 

Lady  Margret  in  Mary's  quire; 
Out  o'  the  lady's  grave  grew  a  bonny  red  rose, 

And  out  o'  the  knight's  a  briar. 


Lord  Randal  53 

And  they  twa  met,  and  they  twa  plat, 

And  fain  they  wad  be  near ; 
And  a'  the  warld  might  ken  right  weel 

They  were  twa  lovers  dear. 

But  by  and  rade  the  Black  Douglas, 

And  wow  but  he  was  rough ! 
For  he  pull'd  up  the  bonny  briar, 

And  flang  't  in  St.  Mary's  Loch. 


"  O  where  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 
O  where  hae  ye  been,  my  handsome  young  man? " 
"  I  hae  been  to  the  wild  wood  ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"  Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man  ?  " 
"  I  din'd  wi  my  true-love ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"  What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 
What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man?" 
"  I  gat  eels  boiled  in  broo  ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"  What   became  of  your  bloodhounds,  Lord  Randal, 

my  son  ? 
What  became   of  your   bloodhounds,    my   handsome 

young  man  ?  " 


54  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  O  they  swelld  and  they  died  ;  mother,  make  my  bed 

soon, 
For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"  O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond,  Lord  Randal,  my  son  ! 
O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond,  my  handsome  young  man  !  " 
"  O  yes  !   I  am  poisond  ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I  'm  sick  at  the  heart,  and  I  fain  wald  lie  down." 

XII 
•58onme  (Sfeorjje  Campbell 


High  upon  Highlands, 

and  low  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

rade  out  on  a  day. 

Saddled  and  bridled 
and  gallant  rade  he  ; 

Hame  cam  his  guid  horse, 
but  never  cam  he. 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither 

greeting  fu'  sair, 
And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 

riving  her  hair. 

Saddled  and  bridled 
and  booted  rade  he  ; 

Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 
but  never  cam  he. 


Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray  55 

"  My  meadow  lies  green, 

and  my  corn  is  unshorn, 
My  barn  is  to  build, 

and  my  babe  is  unborn." 

Saddled  and  bridled 

and  booted  rade  he ; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

but  never  cam  he. 


XIII 

Bessie  38ell  arrtr 


O  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

They  war  twa  bonnie  lasses  ! 
They  bigget  a  bower  on  yon  burn-brae, 

And  theekit  it  o'er  wi  rashes. 

They  theekit  it  o'er  wi  rashes  green, 
They  theekit  it  o'er  wi  heather  ; 

But  the  pest  cam  frae  the  burrows-town, 
And  slew  them  baith  thegither. 

They  thought  to  iie  in  Methven  kirk-yard 

Amang  their  noble  kin  ; 
But  they  maun  lye  in  Stronach  haugh, 

To  biek  forenent  the  sin. 

And  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

They  war  twa  bonnie  lasses  ; 
They  biggit  a  bower  on  yon  burn-brae, 

And  theekit  it  o'er  wi  rashes. 


56  Poetry  of  the  People 

XIV 
Cbe  Ctoa  Corbtra 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  maen ; 

The  tane  into  the  t'ither  did  say, 

"  Whaur  shall  we  gang  and  dine  the  day?  " 

"  O  doun  beside  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 

I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight ; 

Nae  living  kens  that  he  lies  there, 

But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 

"  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wildfowl  hame, 
His  lady  's  ta'en  another  mate, 
Sae  we  may  mak'  our  dinner  sweet 

"  O  we  '11  sit  on  his  white  hause  bane, 
And  I  '11  pyke  out  his  bonny  blue  e'en, 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We  '11  theek  our  nest  when  it  blaws  bare. 

"  Mony  a  ane  for  him  makes  maen, 
But  nane  shall  ken  whaur  he  is  gane ; 
Over  his  banes  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  shall  blaw  for  evermair." 


Helen  of  Kirconnell  57 

XV 
f)elni  of  fcirconncll 

I  wad  I  were  where  Helen  lies ; 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  me  ! 

0  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair 

When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair ! 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  meikle  care 

On  fair  Kirconaell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
Nane  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
Nane  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ; 

I  lighted  down,  my  sword  did  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

0  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare  ! 

1  '11  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair 

Until  the  day  I  dee. 


58  Poetry  of  the  People 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  "  Haste  and  come  to  me ! " 

0  Helen  fair!     O  Helen  chaste  ! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

1  wad  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  o'er  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wad  I  were  where  Helen  lies ; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


XVI 
SEltfc  of  SlsIjrr'B  fSSSell 


There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well, 
And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she  ; 

She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
When  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane, 


The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well  59 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three, 
When  word  came  to  the  carlin  wife 

That  her  sons  she  'd  never  see. 

"  I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fashes  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me, 

In  earthly  flesh  and  blood." 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmass, 

When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk, 
The  carlin  wife's  three  sons  came  hame, 

And  their  hats  were  o'  the  birk. 

It  neither  grew  in  syke  nor  ditch, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh  ; 
But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise, 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 

"  Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens ! 

Bring  water  from  the  well ! 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night, 

Since  my  three  sons  are  well." 

And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 

She  's  made  it  large  and  wide, 
And  she  's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about, 

Sat  down  at  the  bed-side. 


Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 
And  up  and  crew  the  gray ; 

The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 
"  'T  is  time  we  were  away." 


60  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  cock  he  hadna  craw'd  but  once, 
And  clapped  his  wings  at  a', 

When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 
"  Brother,  we  must  awa. 

"  The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 
The  channerin  worm  doth  chide  ; 

Gin  we  be  mist  out  o'  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide. 

"  Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear  ! 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre  ! 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 

That  kindles  my  mother's  fire  !" 


XVII 

SDenum  laber 


"  O,  where  hae  ye  been,  my  lang-lost  love, 
This  lang  seven  years  an'  more  ?  " 

"  O,  I  'm  come  to  seek  my  former  vows 
Ye  granted  me  before." 

"  O,  haud  your  tongue  o'  your  former  vows, 
For  they  '11  breed  bitter  strife  ; 

O,  haud  your  tongue  o'  your  former  vows, 
For  I  am  become  a  wife." 

He  turned  him  right  an'  round  about, 

And  the  tear  blinded  his  e'e  ; 
"  I  wad  never  hae  trodden  on  Irish  ground 

If  it  hadna  been  for  thee. 


The  Demon  Lover  61 

"  I  might  hae  had  a  king's  daughter 

Far,  far  beyond  the  sea, 
I  might  hae  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Had  it  nae  been  for  love  o'  thee." 

"  If  ye  might  hae  had  a  king's  daughter, 

YourseP  ye  hae  to  blame; 
Ye  might  hae  taken  the  king's  daughter, 

For  ye  kenn'd  that  I  was  nane." 

"  O  fause  be  the  vows  o'  womankind, 

But  fair  is  their  fause  bodie  ; 
I  wad  never  hae  trodden  on  Irish  ground 

Had  it  nae  been  for  love  o'  thee." 

"  If  I  was  to  leave  my  husband  dear, 

And  my  twa  babes  also, 
O  where  is  it  ye  would  tak'  me  to, 

If  I  with  thee  should  go?  " 

"  I  hae  seven  ships  upon  the  sea, 

The  eighth  brouct  me  to  land, 
Wi'  four-and-twenty  bold  mariners, 

And  music  of  ilka  hand." 

She  has  taken  up  her  twa  little  babes. 

Kiss'd  them  baith  cheek  and  chin ; 
"  O  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  twa  babes, 

For  I  '11  never  see  you  again." 

She  set  her  foot  upon  the  ship, 

No  mariners  could  she  behold ; 
But  the  sails  were  o'  the  taffetie, 

And  the  masts  o'  the  beaten  gold. 


62  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  O  how  do  you  love  the  ship  ?  "  he  said, 

"  O  how  do  you  love  the  sea  ? 
And  how  do  you  love  the  bold  mariners 

That  wait  upon  thee  and  me  ?  " 

"  O  I  do  love  the  ship,"  she  said, 

"  And  I  do  love  the  sea  ; 
But  wae  to  the  dim  mariners 

That  naewhere  I  can  see  !  " 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  dismal  grew  his  countenance, 

And  drumly  grew  his  e'e. 

The  masts  that  were  like  the  beaten  gold, 

Bent  not  on  the  heaving  seas  ; 
The  sails  that  were  o'  the  taffetie 

Fill'd  not  in  the  east  land  breeze. 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
Until  she  espied  his  cloven  hoof, 

And  she  wept  right  bitterlie. 

"  O  haud  your  tongue  o'  your  weeping,"  he  says 
"  O'  your  weeping  now  let  me  be  ; 

I  will  show  you  how  the  lilies  grow 
On  the  banks  of  Italy." 

"  O  what  hills  are  yon,  yon  pleasant  hills, 
That  the  sun  shines  sweetly  on?" 

"  O  yon  are  the  hills  o'  heaven,"  he  said, 
*•  Where  you  will  never  win." 


The  Demon  Lover  63 

"  O  what'n  a  mountain  's  yon,"  she  said, 

"  Sae  dreary  wi'  frost  an'  snow?" 
"  O  yon  is  the  mountain  o'  hell,"  he  cried, 

"  Where  you  and  I  maun  go  !  " 

And  aye  when  she  turn'd  her  round  about, 

Aye  taller  he  seemed  for  to  be  ; 
Until  that  the  tops  o'  that  gallant  ship 

Nae  taller  were  than  he. 

The  clouds  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  grew  loud, 

And  the  levin  fill'd  her  e'e ; 
And  waesome  wail'd  the  snaw-white  sprites 

Upon  the  gurlie  sea. 

He  strack  tne  tapmast  wi'  his  hand, 

The  foremast  wi'  his  knee  ; 
And  he  brak  that  gallant  ship  in  twain, 

And  sank  her  i'  the  sea. 


BOOK  SECOND  —  POEMS  OF  ENG- 

LAND:  HISTORICAL  AND 

PATRIOTIC 


XVIII 

>atoe  t&e  feinj 

God  save  our  gracious  King! 
Long  live  our  noble  King  J 

God  save  the  King  ! 
Send  him  victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious, 
Long  to  reign  over  us  ! 

God  save  the  King  ! 

O  Lord  our  God,  arise  ! 
Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall  ; 
Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks 
On  Thee  our  hopes  we  fix  — 

God  save  us  all  ! 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour  ; 
Long  may  he  reign  ! 
65 


66  Poetry  of  the  People 

May  he  defend  our  laws, 
And  ever  give  us  cause 
To  sing  with  heart  and  voice, 
God  save  the  King ! 


XIX 


1399 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle, 

This  earth  of  Majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 

This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise, 

This  fortress  built  by  Nature  for  herself 

Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war, 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world, 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands, 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England, 

This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings,    • 

Fear'd  by  their  breed  and  famous  by  their  birth, 

Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 

For  Christian  service  and  true  chivalry, 

As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry 

Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  Son  ; 

This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear"  dear  land, 

Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world, 

Is  now  leased  out,  I  die  pronouncing  it, 

Like  to  a  tenement  or  pelting  farm  : 

England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea, 


Henry  the  Fifth's  Address  before  Harfleur          67 

Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 
Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  shame, 
With  inky  blots  and  rotten  parchment  bonds : 
That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others, 
Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself. 
Ah,  would  the  scandal  vanish  with  my  life, 
How  happy  then  were  my  ensuing  death ! 

Shakespeare 


XX 

tfce  Jtft&'a  SUftreas  to  &te 
iefore  |)arfleur 

1415 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more ; 

Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead. 

In  peace  there  's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man 

As  modest  stillness  and  humility : 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 

Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage  ; 

Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 

Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head 

Like  the  brass  cannon ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it 

As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 

O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 

Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 

Now  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide, 

Hold  hard  the  breath  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  his  full  height.     On,  on,  you  noblest  English, 


68  Poetry  of  the  People 

Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof ! 

Fathers  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have  in  these  parts  from  morn  till  even  fought 

And  sheathed  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument : 

Dishonour  not  your  mothers  ;  now  attest 

That  those  whom  you  call'd  fathers  did  beget  you. 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 

And  teach  them  how  to  war.     And  you,  good  yeomen, 

Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 

The  mettle  of  your  pasture  ;  let  us  swear 

That  you  are  worth  your  breeding ;  which  I  doubt  not ; 

For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 

That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 

I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 

Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game  's  afoot : 

Follow  your  spirit,  and  upon  this  charge 

Cry  "  God  for  Harry,  England,  and  St.  George  ! " 

Shakespeare 

XXI 

feinff  |)entj>  t&e  Jift&  iiefore  Slfffncottrt 
1415 

.  .  .  He  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight, 
Let  him  depart;  his  passport  shall  be  made 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse : 
We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 
This  day  is  call'd  the  feast  of  Crispian : 
He  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 
Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  named, 


King  Henry  the  Fifth  before  Agincourt  69 

And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 

He  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age, 

Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  neighbours, 

And  say  "  To-morrow  is  Saint  Crispian  :  " 

Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeve  and  show  his  scars, 

And  say  "These  wounds  I  had  on  Crispin's  day." 

Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot, 

But  he  '11  remember  with  advantages 

What  feats  he  did  that  day :  then  shall  our  names, 

Familiar  in  his  mouth  as  household  words, 

Harry  the  king,  Bedford  and  Exeter, 

Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloucester, 

Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remember'd. 

This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son  ; 

And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by, 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered  ; 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ; 

For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me 

Shall  be  my  brother ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition  : 

And  gentlemen  in  England  now  a-bed 

Shall  think  themselves  accursed  they  were  not  here, 

And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap  whiles  any  speaks 

That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day. 

Shakespeare 


7  o  Poetry  of  the  People 

XXII 

Co  tj)c  Cambrio  -Britons  an*  tbrir  harp,  I)ts 
of  &fftnconrt 
1415 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour  — 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way 
Where  the  French  gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power, 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 


The  Ballad  of  Agincourt  7  i 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then : 
"  Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed. 
Yet  have  we  well  begun  — 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"  And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
"  This  my  full  rest  shall  be ; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain ; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

"  Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell ; 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped, 

Amongst  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear  — 
A  braver  man  not  there : 
O  Lord  !  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 


7  2  Poetry  of  the  People 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone ; 

Armor  on  armor  shone, 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan  — 

To  hear  was  wonder ; 
That  with  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham! 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  : 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 
Down  the  French  peasants  went ; 

Our  men  were  hardy. 


The  Ballad  of  Agincourt  7  3 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother, 
Clarence,  —  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight,  — 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up  ; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 
To  England  to  carry ; 
Oh,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ! 

Michael  Drayton 


74  Poetry  of  the  People 


XXIII 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET,  1591 

At  Floras  in  the  Azores,  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 

And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fluttered  bird,  came  flying  from  far 

away: 

"  Spanish  ships-of-war  at  sea  !  we  have  sighted  fifty-  three  !  " 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  :  "  'Fore  God  I  am  no 

coward  ; 

But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of  gear, 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.      I  must  fly,   but  follow 

quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line  ;  can  we  fight  with  fifty-three  ?  " 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  "  I  know  you  are  no 

coward  ; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 
But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore. 
I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my  Lord 

Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain." 

So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that 

day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven  ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below  ; 


The  "Revenge"  75 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not  left  to 

Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to 

fight, 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard  came  in 

sight, 

With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather  bow. 
"  Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die  ! 

There  '11  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be  set." 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again :  "  We  be  all  good  Englishmen. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,   the  children   of   the 

devil, 
For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet." 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and  we  roared  a  hurrah, 

and  so 

The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety  sick 

below ; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left  were 

seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  through  the  long  sea-lane 

between. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down  from  their  decks 

and  laughed, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad  little 

craft 


76  Poetry  of  the  People 

Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 

By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen  hundred 

tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning  tiers  of 

guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stayed. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us  like  a 

cloud, 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 
Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 
And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the   starboard 

lay, 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself  and 

went, 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill-content; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us  hand 

to  hand, 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and  musque- 

teers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that  shakes 

his  ears, 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far  over 

the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and  the 

fifty-three. 


The  "Revenge"  77 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built  gal- 
leons came, 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle-thunder 
and  flame ; 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with  her 
dead  and  her  shame, 

For  some  wece  sunk  and  many  were  shattered,  and  so  could 
fight  us  no  more  — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world 
before  ? 

For  he  said  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  !  " 

Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck ; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  summer  night  was 

gone, 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest,  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But   a   bullet  struck  him   that   was    dressing   it   suddenly 

dead, 
And  himself,  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the 

head, 
And  he  said,  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  !  " 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far  over 

the  summer  sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us  all  in 

a  ring ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  feared  that  we 

still  could  sting, 

So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 


78  Poetry  of  the.  People 

And  half  cf  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate  strife  ; 

And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them 

stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder  was 

all  of  it  spent ; 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side ; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
"  We  have  fought  such  a  fight,  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  ! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die  —  does  it  matter  when  ? 
Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner  —  sink  her,  split  her  in 

twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of  Spain ! " 

And  the  gunner  said,  "  Ay,  ay,"  but  the  seamen  made  reply : 

"  We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let  us 

go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another  blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the  foe. 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him 

then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard  caught 

at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly  foreign 

grace; 


The  "Revenge"  79 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried : 

"  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man  and 

true; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do : 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I,  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  die!" 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant  and 

true, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  he"r  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English  few ; 
Was  he  devil  or  man  ?     He  was  devil  for  aught  they  knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down  into  the  deep, 
And  they  manned  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier,  alien  crew, 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her  own ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke  from 

sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended,  a  great  gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earthquake 

grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their  masts 

and  their  flags, 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot-shatter 'd 

navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down  by  the  island 

crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


8o  Pottry  of  the  People 

XXIV 
<0ite  a  House 

1642-1649 

King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  1 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since  ? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

Chorus 

King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 

Chorus 

King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who 's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 

King  Charles ! 

Robert  Browning 


The  Sally  from  Coventry  81 

XXV 
C&e  Sallp  from  Cotoenttp 

"  Passion  o'  me  !  "  cried  Sir  Richard  Tyrone, 
Spurning  the  sparks  from  the  broad  paving-stone, 
"  Better  turn  nurse  and  rock  children  to  sleep, 
Than  yield  to  a  rebel  old  Coventry  Keep. 
No,  by  my  halidom,  no  one  shall  say, 
Sir  Richard  Tyrone  gave  a  city  away." 

Passion  o'  me  !  how  he  pulled  at  his  beard, 
Fretting  and  chafing  if  any  one  sneered, 
Clapping  his  breastplate  and  shaking  his  fist, 
Giving  his  grizzly  moustachios  a  twist, 
Running  the  protocol  through  with  his  steel, 
Grinding  the  letter  to  mud  with  his  heel. 

Then  he  roared  out  for  a  pottle  of  sack, 
Clapped  the  old  trumpeter  twice  on  the  back, 
Leaped  on  his  bay  with  a  dash  and  a  swing, 
Bade  all  the  bells  in  the  city  to  ring, 
And  when  the  red  flag  from  the  steeple  went  down, 
Open  they  flung  every  gate  in  the  town. 

To  boot !  and  to  horse  !  and  away  like  a  flood, 

A  fire  in  their  eyes,  and  a  sting  in  their  blood ; 

Hurrying  out  with  a  flash  and  a  flare, 

A  roar  of  hot  guns,  a  loud  trumpeter's  blare, 

And  first,  sitting  proud  as  a  king  on  his  throne, 

At  the  head  of  them  all  dashed  Sir  Richard  Tyrone. 

Crimson  and  yellow,  and  purple  and  dun, 
Fluttering  scarf,  flowing  bright  in  the  sun, 


82  Poetry  of  the  People 

Steel  like  a  mirror  on  brow  and  on  breast, 
Scarlet  and  white  on  their  feather  and  crest, 
Banner  that  blew  in  a  torrent  of  red, 
Borne  by  Sir  Richard,  who  rode  at  their  head. 

The  "  trumpet "  went  down  —  with  a  gash  on  his  poll, 
Struck  by  the  parters  of  body  and  soul. 
Forty  saddles  were  empty  ;  the  horses  ran  red 
With  foul  Puritan  blood  from  the  slashes  that  bled. 
Curses  and  cries  and  a  gnashing  of  teeth, 
A  grapple  and  stab  on  the  slippery  heath, 
And  Sir  Richard  leaped  up  on  the  fool  that  went  down, 
Proud  as  a  conqueror  donning  his  crown. 

They  broke  them  a  way  through  a  flooding  of  fire, 
Trampling  the  best  blood  of  London  to  mire, 
When  suddenly  rising  a  smoke  and  a  blaze, 
Made  all  "  the  dragon's  sons  "  stare  in  amaze : 
"  O  ho  !  "  quoth  Sir  Richard,  "  my  city  grows  hot, 
I  've  left  it  rent  paid  to  the  villanous  Scot." 

Walter  Thornbury 

XXVI 

C&c  battle  of  J&aeebp 

BY  OBADIAH  BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR- 
NoBLES-wiTH-LiNKS-OF-lRON,  Sergeant  in  Ireton's  Regiment 

1645 

Oh !  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph  from  the  north, 
With  your  hands,  and  your  feet,  and  your  raiment  all  red  ? 

And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a  joyous  shout  ? 
And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press  which  ye  tread? 


The  Battle  of '  Naseby  83 

Oh  !  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the  fruit, 

And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that  we  trod ; 
For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty  and  the 

strong, 

Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the  saints  of  God. 
It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of  June, 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and  their  cuirasses  shine, 
And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his  long  essenced 

hair, 

And  Astley,   and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and   Rupert  of  the 
Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and  his  sword, 

The  general  rode  along  us  to  form  us  to  the  fight ; 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and  swelled  into  a 
shout 

Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's  right. 
And  hark !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  shore, 

The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line  : 
For  God  !  for  the  Cause  !  for  the  Church  !  for  the  Laws  ! 

For  Charles,  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of  the  Rhine ! 
The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and  his  drums, 

His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  Whitehall ; 
They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks  !   Grasp  your  pikes  !    Close 
your  ranks ! 

For  Rupert  never  comes  but  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 

They  are  here  —  they  rush  on  —  we  are  broken  —  we  are 

gone  — 

Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the  blast. 
O  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !     O  Lord,  defend  the  right ! 
Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name !  and  fight  it  to  the 
last  ! 


84  Poetry  of  the  People 

Stout   Skippon   hath   a  wound  —  the    centre    hath    given 

ground. 
Hark!  hark  1  what  means  the  trampling  of  horsemen  on 

our  rear  ? 
Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys?     'T  is  he!  thank  God!  'tis 

he,  boys ! 

Bear  up  another  minute  !     Brave  Oliver  is  here  ! 
Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in  a  row  : 

Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on  the  dikes, 
Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the  Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook  to  hide 

Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on  Temple  Bar ; 
And  he  —  he  turns  !  he  flies  !  shame  on  those  cruel  eyes 

That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not  look  on  war! 
Ho,  comrades !  scour  the  plain  ;  and  ere  ye  strip  the  slain, 

First  give  another  stab  to  make  your  search  secure ; 
Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their  broad-pieces 
and  lockets, 

The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the  poor. 
Fools !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and  your  hearts  were 
gay  and  bold, 

When  you  kissed  your  lily  hands  to  your  lemans  to-day ; 
And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox  from  her  chambers  in  the  rocks 

Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues  that  late  mocked  at  heaven,  and 

hell,  and  fate  ? 

And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with  your  blades? 
Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches  and  your  oaths  ? 
Your  stage  plays  and  your  sonnets,  your  diamonds  and 
your  spades? 


The  Three  Troopers  85 

Down  !  down  !  for  ever  down,  with  the  mitre  and  the  crown  ! 
With  the  Belial  of  the  court,  and  the  Mammon  of  the 

Pope! 
There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  wail  in  Durham's 

stalls ; 

The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom,  the  bishop  rends  his  cope. 
And  she  of  the  seven  hills  shall  mourn  her  children's  ills, 
And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of  England's 

sword  ; 

And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder  when  they  hear 
What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the  Houses  and 
the  Word  !  Lord  Macaulay 


XXVII 

€&ree  dCroopera 

[DURING  THE  PROTECTORATE,  1653-1658] 

Into  the  Devil  tavern 

Three  booted  troopers  strode, 
From  spur  to  feather  spotted  and  splashed 

With  the  mud  of  a  winter  road. 
In  each  of  their  cups  they  dropped  a  crust, 

And  stared  at  the  guests  with  a  frown ; 
Then  drew  their  swords,  and  roared  for  a  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !" 

A  blue  smoke  rose  from  their  pistol  locks, 
Their  sword  blades  were  still  wet ; 

There  were  long  red  smears  on  their  jerkins  of  buff, 
As  they  the  table  overset. 


86  Poetry  of  the  People 

Then  into  their  cups  they  stirred  the  crusts, 
And  cursed  old  London  town  ; 

They  waved  their  swords,  and  drank  with  a  stamp, 
"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 


The  'prentice  dropped  his  can  of  beer, 

The  host  turned  pale  as  a  clout ; 
The  ruby  nose  of  the  toping  squires 

Grew  white  at  the  wild  men's  shout. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  flung  their  crusts, 

And  shewed  their  teeth  with  a  frown ; 
They  flashed  their  swords  as  they  gave  the  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

The  gambler  dropped  his  dog's-ear'd  cards, 

The  waiting-women  screamed, 
As  the  light  of  the  fire,  like  stains  of  blood, 

On  the  wild  men's  sabres  gleamed. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  splashed  their  crusts, 

And  cursed  the  fool  of  a  town, 
And  leapt  on  the  table,  and  roared  a  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down !  " 

Till  on  a  sudden  fire-bells  rang, 

And  the  troopers  sprang  to  horse 
The  eldest  muttered  between  his  teeth, 

Hot  curses  —  deep  and  coarse. 
In  their  stirrup  cups  they  flung  the  crusts, 

And  cried  as  they  spurred  through  the  town, 
With   their   keen   swords   drawn   and   their   pistols 
cocked, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 


The  British  Grenadiers  87 

Away  they  dashed  through  Temple  Bar, 

Their  red  cloaks  flowing  free, 
Their  scabbards  clashed,  each  back-piece  shone  — 

None  like  to  touch  the  three. 
The  silver  cups  that  held  the  crusts 

They  flung  to  the  startled  town, 
Shouting  again,  with  a  blaze  of  swords, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

Walter  Thornbury 


XXVIII 

(EJrenaitere 

c.  1690 

Some  talk  of  Alexander,  and  some  of  Hercules ; 

Of  Hector  and  Lysander,  and  such  great  names  as  these ; 

But  of  all  the  world's  brave  heroes,  there  's  none  that  can 

compare, 
With   a   tow,    row,    row,   row,   row,   row,    to   the   British 

Grenadier. 

Those  heroes  of  antiquity  ne'er  saw  a  cannon  ball, 
Or  knew  the  force  of  powder  to  slay  their  foes  withal ; 
But  our  brave  boys  do  know  it,  and  banish  all  their  fears, 
Sing    tow,    row,    row,   row,    row,    row,    for   the    British 
Grenadiers. 

Whene'er  we  are  commanded  to  storm  the  palisades, 
Our  leaders  march  with  fusees,  and  we  with  hand  grenades ; 
We  throw  them  from  the  glacis,  about  the  enemies'  ears, 
Sing    tow,   row,    row,    row,    row,    row,    for    the    British 
Grenadiers. 


88  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  when  the  siege  is  over,  we  to  the  town  repair, 

The  townsmen  cry  Hurra,  boys,  here  comes  a  Grenadier, 

Here  come  the  Grenadiers,  my  boys,  who  know  no  doubts 

or  fears, 
Then  sing  tow,  row,  row,  row,  row,  row,  for  the  British 

Grenadiers. 

Then  let  us  fill  a  bumper  and  drink  a  health  to  those 
Who  carry  caps  and  pouches,  and  wear  the  louped  clothes ; 
May  they  and  their  commanders  live  happy  all  their  years, 
With    a    tow,  row,    row,   row,    row,    row,    for   the    British 
Grenadiers.  Anonymous 


XXIX 

Ettle,  -Britannia 
1740 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain: 
"  Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

"  The  nations  not  so  blessed  as  thee 

Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall ; 
While  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


Rule,  Britannia!  89 

"  Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 
More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke ; 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 

Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

"  Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame  : 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

"  To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine  : 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main,  — 
And  every  shore  it  circles,  thine. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves.    . 

"  The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair : 
Blessed  isle!  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves." 

James  Thomson 


90  Poetry  of  the  People 

XXX 
©toe,  SISftrttten  in  t&e  pear  1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung: 
There  Honor  conies,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

William  Collins 

XXXI 

•Battle  of  tbc  -Baltic 

1801 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold,  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 


Battle  of  the  Baltic  9 1 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  — 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime ; 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between.  — 
"  Hearts  of  oak !  "  our  captain  cried,  when  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom :  — 

Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave : 
"  Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  ;  — 


92  Poetry  of  the  People 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring : 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day : 
While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise  ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 
And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  ! 

Brave  hearts !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant,  good  Riou :  — 
Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave  ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave  !  Thomas  Campbell 


Ye  Mariners  of  England  93 

XXXII 

P*  partners  of  SnglanB 
1805 

Ye  mariners  of  England, 

That  guard  our  native  seas, 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze, 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 

To  match  another  foe  ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  — 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave. 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  — 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-wave, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 


94  Poetry  of  the  People 

She  quells  the  iloods  below, 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  — 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  storm)'  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  fla|;  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-  warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  — 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell 

XXXIII 

Character  of  Ihe  fjjappp  SISIarrior 


Who  is  the  happy  Warrior  ?     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 

—  It  is  the  generouii  spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  childish  thought  : 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright  : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care  ; 


Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior  95 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain 
And  Fear  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives : 
By  objects  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling  rendered  more  compassionate ; 
Is  placable  —  because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more  ;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

—  'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  : 

—  Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire ; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim, 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state ; 
Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 


g6  Poetry  of  the  People 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human-kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  lover ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or,  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need : 

—  He  who,  though  thus  endued,  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ; 

Sweet  images  !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love. 

—  'T  is,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted  high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity,  — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won: 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray : 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpassed : 
Who,  —  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 


The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna        97 

Forever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name,  — 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause :  — 
This  is  the  happy  warrior ;  this  is  he 
Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

William  Wordsworth 


XXXIV 

Burial  of  S>ir  ^oljn  JHoorc  at  Conmna 

1809 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sod  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


98  Poetry  of  the  People 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  little  he  '11  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory  1 

Charles  Wolfe 


XXXV 

J left  of 

1815 

Stop!  for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust! 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below ! 
Is  the  spot  marked  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
None  ;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be ; 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 


The  Field  of  Waterloo  99 

i 

And  is  this  all  the  world  has  g  ained  by  thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !  king-making  Victory? 


There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men. 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No  ;  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet. 
But  hark!  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ; 
Arm!  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 


ioo  Poetry  of  the  People 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which,  but  an  hour  ago, 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness. 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  would  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste ;  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips  —  "  The  foe !   they  come  ! 
they  come ! " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering  "  rose  ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes  — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !  but  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years ; 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave  —  alas  ! 


The  Lost  Leader  101 

Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay ; 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshaling  in  arms,  —  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which,  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent ! 

Lord  Byron 

XXXVI 

C&e  lost  IcaUer 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed  : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 


IO2 


Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  —  they  watch  from  their 

graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

—  He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  1 

We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire : 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God ! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part  —  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him  —  strike  gallantly 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne  ! 

Robert  Browning 

XXXVII 

^tutorial  Serge*  on  t&e  £>eat&  of  S5BorB6toatt& 
1850 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remained  to  come  — 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb, 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 


Memorial  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Wordsworth    103 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bowed  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little ;  but  our  soul 
Had/2r//  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watched  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said: 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear; 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said  :   Thou  ailest  here,  and  here! 

He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power ; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  — 

He  said  :   The  end  is  everywhere, 

Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there! 

And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  !  —  Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice ! 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  conveyed, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 


104  Poetry  of  the  People 

Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  —  and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we  1 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen  —  on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round  ; 
He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  returned  ;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 
Ah !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power  ? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 
But  who,  ah !  who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by? 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington     105 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave  ! 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

Matthew  Arnold 


XXXVIII 

©He  on  tbe  £>eat|)  of  t(je  £)ttfee  of  SSIeUtnjrton 

1852 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation, 
Mourni»g  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

<c 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past 


io6  Poetry  of  the  People 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute  : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew  ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
And  render  him  to  the  mould. 
Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 
There  he  shall  rest  forever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington     107 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  : 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyra.it,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 

O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd  guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest  ? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 


1 08  Poetry  of  the  People 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 

His  foes  were  thine ;  he  kept  us  free ; 

O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  5 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  vallejr  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes.  _, 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington     1 09 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  f oam'd  themselves  away  j 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew : 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo ! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine  J 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


no  Poetry  of  the  People 

A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers ; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
Forever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
Forever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke ; 
Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington     1 1 1 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right: 
Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 

Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 

Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 

Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 

Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story,, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 

Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 


H2  Poetry  of  the  People 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure ; 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see  : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung: 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain ! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  ail  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington     113 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  disappears ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great.  —  • 

Gone ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 

Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer-crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


1 1 4  Poetry  of  the  People 

XXXIX 

C&e  logs  of  t&e  "  33irien&eaa " 

1852 

Right  on  our  flank  the  crimson  sun  went  down, 

The  deep  sea  rolled  around  in  dark  repose, 
When,  like  the  wild  shriek  from  some  captured  town, 
A  cry  of  women  rose. 

The  stout  ship  Birkenhead  lay  hard  and  fast, 
Caught,  without  hope,  upon  a  hidden  rock ; 
Her  timbers  thrilled  as  nerves,  when  through  them  passed 
The  spirit  of  that  shock. 

And  ever  like  base  cowards,  who  leave  their  ranks 

In  danger's  hour,  before  the  rush  of  steel, 
Drifted  away,  disorderly,  the  planks 

From  underneath  her  keel. 

Confusion  spread,  for,  though  the  coast  seemed  near, 

Sharks  hovered  thick  along  that  white  sea-brink. 
The  boats  could  hold  ?  —  not  all ;  and  it  was  clear 
She  was  about  to  sink. 

"  Out  with  those  boats,  and  let  us  haste  away," 

Cried  one,  "  ere  yet  yon  sea  the  bark  devours." 
The  man  thus  clamoring  was,  I  scarce  need  say, 
No  officer  of  ours. 

We  knew  our  duty  better  than  to  care 

For  such  loose  babblers,  and  made  no  reply, 
Till  our  good  colonel  gave  the  word,  and  there 
Formed  us  in  line  to  die. 


The  Loss  of  the  "Birkenhead  "  115 

There  rose  no  murmur  from  the  ranks,  no  thought, 

By  shameful  strength,  unhonored  life  to  seek ; 
Our  post  to  quit  we  were  not  trained,  nor  taught 
To  trample  down  the  weak. 

So  we  made  women  with  their  children  go, 
The  oars  ply  back  again,  and  yet  again ; 
Whilst,  inch  by  inch,  the  drowning  ship  sank  low, 
Still  under  steadfast  men. 

What  follows,  why  recall  ?     The  brave  who  died, 

Died  without  flinching  in  the  bloody  surf; 
They  sleep  as  well,  beneath  that  purple  tide, 
As  others,  under  turf  ;  — 

They  sleep  as  well,  and,  roused  from  their  wild  grave, 

Wearing  their  wounds  like  stars,  shall  rise  again, 
Joint-heirs  with  Christ,  because  they  bled  to  save 
His  weak  ones,  not  in  vain. 

If  that  day's  work  no  clasp  or  medal  mark, 

If  each  proud  heart  no  cross  of  bronze  may  press, 
Nor  cannon  thunder  loud  from  Tower  and  Park, 
This  feel  we,  none  the  less : 

That  those  whom  God's  high  grace  there  saved  from  ill  — 

Those  also,  left  His  martyrs  in  the  bay  — 
Though  not  by  siege,  though  not  in  battle,  still 
Full  well  had  earned  their  pay. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle 


1 1 6  Poetry  of  the  People 

XL 

C&atffe  of  t&e  Its&t 
1854 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  1 " 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die :    ' 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well : 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  117 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O,  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 

Alfred  Tennyson 


1 1 8  Poetry  of  the  People 

XLI 
Santa  jFtlotnena 

(A  TRIBUTE  TO  FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE) 
1854 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 


The  Song  of  the  Camp  119 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 

Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 

Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 

The  vision  came  and  went, 

The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 
The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 

XLII 

C|je  Song;  of  t&e  Camp 

1855 

"  Give  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 


120  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said  : 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 
Below  the  smoking  cannon,  — 

Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde 
And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory ; 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  Annie  Laurie. 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 
The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 


The  Relief  of  Lucknow  121 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 

Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 
With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 

And  bellowing  of  the  mortars ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 

For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory; 
And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 

Who  sang  of  Annie  Laurie. 

Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honored  rest 

Your  truth  and  valor  wearing ; 
The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 

The  loving  are  the  daring. 

Bayard  Taylor 

XLIII 

Cfce  Eeltef  of  Ittrftnoto 

1857 

Oh,  that  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort ! 

We  knew  that  it  was  the  last ; 
That  the  enemy's  mines  crept  surely  in, 

And  the  end  was  coming  fast. 

To  yield  to  that  foe  meant  worse  than  death ; 

And  the  men  and  we  all  worked  on ; 
It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and  roar, 

And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 

There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's  wife, 

A  fair,  young,  gentle  thing, 
Wasted  with  fever  in  the  siege, 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 


122  Poetry  of  the  People 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scottish  plaid, 
And  I  took  her  head  on  my  knee  ; 

«  When  my  father  comes  hame  frae  the  pleugh," 

she  said, 
"  Oh  !  then  please  wauken  me." 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's  floor, 
In  the  flecking  of  wood-bine  shade, 

When  the  house-dog  sprawls  by  the  open  door, 
And  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 

It  was  smoke  and  roar  and  powder-stench, 

And  hopeless  waiting  for  death ; 
And  the  soldier's  wife,  like  a  full-tired  child, 

Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I  sank  to  sleep ;  and  I  had  my  dream 

Of  an  English  village-lane, 
And  wall  and  garden  ;  but  one  wild  scream 

Brought  me  back  to  the  roar  again. 

There  Jessie  Brown  stood  listening 

Till  a  sudden  gladness  broke 
All  over  her  face ;  and  she  caught  my  hand 

And  drew  me  near  and  spoke : 

"The  Hielanders  !  Oh  !  dinna  ye  hear 

The  slogan  far  awa? 
The  McGregor's?     Oh  !  I  ken  it  weel; 

It 's  the  grandest  o'  them  a' ! 

"  God  bless  thae  bonny  Hielanders ! 

We  're  saved  !  we  're  saved !  "  she  cried ; 
And  fell  on  her  knees  ;  and  thanks  to  God 

FJpwed  forth  like  a  full 


The  Relief  of  Lucknow  123 

Along  the  battery  line  her  cry 

Had  fallen  among  the  men, 
And  they  started  back ;  —  they  were  there  to  die ; 

But  was  life  so  near  them,  then  ? 

They  listened  for  life;  the  rattling  fire 

Far  off,  and  the  far-off  roar, 
Were  all ;  and  the  colonel  shook  his  head, 

And  they  turned  to  their  guns  once  more. 

Then  Jessie  said,  "  That  slogan  's  done  ; 

But  can  ye  hear  them  noo, 
The  Campbells  are  comiri1  ?     It 's  no  a  dream; 

Our  succors  hae  broken  through." 

We  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle  afar, 

But  the  pipes  we  could  not  hear ; 
So  the  men  plied  their  work  of  hopeless  war, 

And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 

It  was  not  long  ere  it  made  its  way, 

A  thrilling,  ceaseless  sound : 
It  was  no  noise  from  the  strife  afar, 

Or  the  sappers  under  ground. 

It  was  the  pipers  of  the  Highlanders  ! 

And  now  they  played  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of  God, 

And  they  shouted  along  the  line. 

And  they  wept,  and  shook  one  another's  hands, 

And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd ; 
And  every  one  knelt  down  where  he  stood, 

And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 


124  Poetry  of  the  People 

That  happy  day,  when  we  welcomed  them, 

Our  men  put  Jessie  first ; 
And  the  general  gave  her  his  hand,  and  cheers 

Like  a  storm  from  the  soldiers  burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan  streamed, 
Marching  round  and  round  our  line ; 

And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken  with  tears, 
As  the  pipes  played  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Robert  Trail!  Sfence  Lowell 

XLIV 

C&e  ;$Hatc&  of  t&e  SMorfcera 

1885 

What  is  this,  the  sound  and  rumor?     What  is  this  that  all 

men  hear, 
Like  the  wind  in  hollow  valleys  when  the  storm  is  drawing 

near, 

Like  the  rolling  on  of  ocean  in  the  eventide  of  fear  ? 
'T  is  the  people  marching  on. 

Whither  go  they,  and  whence  come  they  ?     What  are  these 

of  whom  ye  tell  ? 
In  what  country  are  they  dwelling  'twixt  the  gates  of  heaven 

and  hell  ? 

Are  they  mine  or  thine  for  money?     Will  they  serve  a 
master  well  ? 

Still  the  rumor  's  marching  on. 
Hark  the  rolling  of  the  thunder  ! 
Lo,  the  sun!  and  lo,  thereunder, 
Riseth  wrath,  and  hope,  and  wonder, 
And  the  host  comes  marching  on. 


The  March  of  the  Workers  125 

Forth  they  come  from  grief   and  torment ;  on  they  wend 

toward  health  and  mirth, 
All  the  wide  world  is  their  dwelling,  every  corner  of  the 

earth. 
Buy  them,  sell    them   for   thy  service!     Try   the   bargain 

what  't  is  worth 

For  the  days  are  marching  on. 

These  are  they  who  build  thy  houses,  weave  thy  raiment, 

win  thy  wheat, 
Smooth  the   rugged,  fill   the   barren,  turn  the   bitter   into 

sweet. 

All  for  thee  this  day  —  and  ever.  What  reward  for  them 
is  meet? 

Till  the  host  comes  marching  on. 
Hark  the  rolling  of  the  thunder ! 
Lo,  the  sun!  and  lo,  thereunder, 
Riseth  wrath,  and  hope,  and  wonder, 
And  the  host  comes  marching  on. 

Many  a  hundred  years  passed  over  have  they  labored  deaf 

and  blind ; 
Never  tidings  reached  their  sorrow,  never  hope  their  toil 

might  find. 
Now  at  last  they  Ve  heard  and  hear  it,  and  the  cry  comes 

down  the  wind, 

And  their  feet  are  marching  on. 

O  ye  rich  men  hear  and  tremble  !  for  with  words  the  sound 
is  rife : 

*'•  Once  for  you  and  death  we  labored ;  changed  hencefor- 
ward is  the  strife. 

We  are  men,  and  we  shall  battle  for  the  world  of  men  and  life  : 


126  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  our  host  is  marching  on." 
Hark  the  rolling  of  the  thunder  ! 
Lo,  the  sun !  and  lo,  thereunder, 
Riseth  wrath,  and  hope,  and  wonder, 

And  the  host  comes  marching  on. 

"  Is  it  war,  then?  Will  ye  perish  as  the  dry  wood  in  the  fire? 
Is  it  peace  ?  Then  be  ye  of  us,  let  your  hope  be  our  desire. 
Come  and  live  !  for  life  awaketh,  and  the  world  shall  never 

tire; 

And  hope  is  marching  on." 

"  On  we  march  then,  we  the  workers,  and  the  rumor  that 

ye  hear 

Is  the  blended  sound  of  battle  and  deliv'rance  drawing  near ; 
For  the  hope  of  every  creature  is  the  banner  that  we  bear, 

And  the  world  is  marching  on." 
Hark  the  rolling  of  the  thunder ! 
Lo,  the  sun  !  and  lo,  thereunder, 
Riseth  wrath,  and  hope,  and  wonder, 
And  the  host  comes  marching  on. 

William  Morris 

XLV 

Heceemonal 

i897 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old  — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle-line  — 

Beneath  Whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 


Recessional  127 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart  — 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  Sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget —  lest  we  forget ! 

Far-called  our  navies  melt  away  — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire  — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre  ! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe  — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 

In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard, 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard  — 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord ! 

Amen. 
Rudyard  Kipling 


128  Poetry  of  the  People 

MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS   AND   BALLADS 

XLVI 
•Barbara  SUlen 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swelling, 

Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay 
For  love  o'  Barbara  Allen. 

He  sent  his  man  unto  her  then, 

To  the  town  where  she  was  dwelling : 

"  O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen." 

Slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up, 

And  she  cam'  where  he  was  lying; 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by, 

Says,  "  Young  man,  I  think  you  're  dying." 

"  O  it 's  I  am  sick,  and  very,  very  sick, 

And  it 's  a'  for  Barbara  Allen." 
"  O  the  better  for  me  ye'se  never  be, 

Tho'  your  heart's  blude  were  a-spilling! 

"  O  dinna  ye  min',  young  man,"  she  says, 
"  When  the  red  wine  ye  were  filling, 

That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and  round, 
And  ye  slighted  Barbara  Allen  ?  " 


The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington  129 

He  turn'd  his  face  unto  the  wa', 

And  death  was  wi'  him  dealing : 
"  Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  a' ; 

Be  kind  to  Barbara  Allen." 

As  she  was  walking  o'er  the  fields, 

She  heard  the  dead-bell  knelling ; 
And  every  jow  the  dead-bell  gave, 

It  cried,  "  Woe  to  Barbara  Allen!  " 

"  O  mother,  mother,  mak'  my  bed, 

To  lay  me  down  in  sorrow. 
My  love  has  died  for  me  to-day, 

I  '11  die  for  him  to-morrow." 

Anonymous 


XLVII 

^Bailiff's  SDattg&tet  of 


There  was  a  youth,  and  a  well-beloved  youth, 

And  he  was  a  squire's  son  ; 
He  loved  a  bailiff's  daughter  dear, 

That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she,  being  coy,  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  so, 
Nor  would  she  any  countenance 

Unto  this  young  man  show. 

But  when  his  friends  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  mind, 
They  sent  him  up  to  fair  London, 

An  apprentice  him  to  bind. 


130  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  now  he  's  gone  't  is  seven  long  years, 
And  never  his  love  could  see  : 

"  O  many  a  tear  have  I  shed  for  her  sake, 
When  she  little  thought  of  me  !  " 

One  day  the  maids  of  Islington 
Went  forth  to  sport  and  play  ; 

And  then  the  bailiff's  daughter  dear, 
She  secretly  stole  away. 

She  pull'd  off  her  pretty  gown  of  pink, 

And  put  on  ragged  attire, 
And  to  fair  London  she  would  go, 

For  her  true  love  to  enquire. 

And  as  she  went  along  the  road, 
The  weather  being  hot  and  dry, 

She  sat  her  down  on  a  grassy  bank, 
And  her  true  love  came  riding  by. 

She  started  up,  with  a  color  so  red ; 

Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-rein : 
"  One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,"  she  said, 

"  Would  ease  me  of  much  pain." 

"  Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweetheart, 
Pray  tell  me  where  you  were  born." 

"  At  Islington,  kind  sir,"  said  she, 
"  Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorn." 

"  I  prithee,  sweetheart,  then  tell  to  me, 

O  tell  me  whether  you  know 
The  bailiff's  daughter  of  Islington?" 

"  She  is  dead,  sir,  long  ago." 


My  True-Love  hath  my  Heart  131 

"If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse, 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also  ; 
For  I  '11  sail  away  for  some  far  country, 

Where  no  man  shall  me  know." 

"  O  stay,  good  youth  !     O  look,  dear  love ! 

She  standeth  by  thy  side  ; 
She  's  here  alive,  she  is  not  dead, 

She  's  ready  to  be  thy  bride." 

"  O  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy, 

Ten  thousand  times,  therefore  ! 
For  now  I  have  found  mine  own  true  love, 

Whom  I  thought  I  should  never  see  more." 

Anonymous 


XLVIII 

Crtte=J.o\je  (jatf)  mj>  peart 

i 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given  : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss ; 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides  : 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 


132  Poetry  of  the  People 


XLIX 

is 


Who  is  Silvia?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling  : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring.  shakespear* 


Cafce,  ©>  Cafce  t&ose  lipe  Slwap 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn: 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again ; 

Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain. 
Sealed  in  vain. 


Shakespeare 


To  Celia  133 

LI 
,  Cfjott  SSRintet  SSEinU 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh  ho  !  sing,  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  : 

Then,  heigh  ho,  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot  : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing,  heigh  ho  !  etc. 

Shakespeare 


Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 

Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 
And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 


134  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be  ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee  ! 

Ben  Jonson 


LIII 

Gentlemen  of 


You  Gentlemen  of  England, 

That  live  at  home  at  ease, 
How  little  do  you  think  upon 

The  dangers  of  the  seas  ; 
Give  ear  unto  the  mariners, 

And  they  will  plainly  show 
All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  sailor  must  have  courage, 
No  danger  must  he  shun  ; 

In  every  kind  of  weather 

His  course  he  still  must  run  ; 


You  Gentlemen  of  England  135 

Now  mounted  on  the  top-mast, 

How  dreadful  't  is  below  ! 
Then  we  ride,  as  the  tide, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

If  enemies  oppose  us, 

And  England  is  at  war 
With  any  foreign  nation, 

We  fear  not  wound  nor  scar. 
To  humble  them,  come  on,  lads, 

Their  flags  we  '11  soon  lay  low ; 
Clear  the  way  for  the  fray, 

Tho'  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Sometimes  in  Neptune's  bosom 

Our  ship  is  toss'd  by  waves, 
And  every  man  expecting 

The  sea  to  be  our  graves ; 
Then  up  aloft  she  's  mounted, 

And  down  again  so  low, 
In  the  waves,  on  the  seas, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

But  when  the  danger 's  over, 

And  safe  we  come  on  shore, 
The  horrors  of  the  tempest 

We  think  about  no  more ; 
The  flowing  bowl  invites  us, 

And  joyfully  we  go, 
All  the  day  drink  away, 

Tho'  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  words  altered  from  Martin  Parker 


136  Poetry  of  the  People 

LIV 
f&allp  in  our  SlUep 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There  's  none  like  pretty  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  ; 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally  ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely  — 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 

I  '11  bear  it  all  for  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that 's  in  the  week 
I  dearly  love  but  one  day  — 


Sally  in  our  Alley  137 

And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  I  'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named ; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again 

0  then  I  shall  have  money ; 
I  '11  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

1  '11  give  it  to  my  honey  ; 

I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I  'd  give  it  all  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally ; 
And,  but  for  her,  I  'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out 

O  then  I  '11  marry  Sally,  — 
O  then  we  '11  wed,  and  then  we  '11  bed, 

But  not  in  our  alley ! 

H.  Carey 


138  Poetry  of  the  People 

LV 
C&e  ©tear  of 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  days. 

When  loyalty  no  harm  meant, 
A  zealous  high-churchman  was  I, 

And  so  I  got  preferment, 
To  teach  my  flock,  I  never  miss'd, 

Kings  were  by  God  appointed, 
And  lost  all  those  that  dare  resist, 

Or  touch  the  Lord's  anointed. 
And  this  is  law  that  I  '11  maintain, 

Until  my  dying  day,  Sir, 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 

I  '11  still  be  Vicar  of  Bray,  Sir. 

When  royal  James  possess'd  the  crown. 

And  Popery  came  in  fashion, 
The  penal  laws  I  hooted  down, 

And  read  the  Declaration : 
The  Church  of  Rome  I  found  would  fit 

Full  well  my  constitution. 
And  I  had  been  a  Jesuit, 

But  for  the  Revolution. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

When  William  was  our  king  declar'd, 
To  ease  the  nation's  grievance, 

With  this  new  wind  about  I  steer'd, 
And  swore  to  him  allegiance. 

Old  principles  I  did  revoke, 
Set  conscience  at  a  distance ; 


The  Vicar  of  Bray  139 

Passive  obedience  was  a  joke, 

A  jest  was  non-resistance. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

When  royal  Anne  became  our  queen, 

The  Church  of  England's  glory, 
Another  face  of  things  was  seen, 

And  I  became  a  Tory : 
Occasional  conformists  base, 

I  blam'd  their  moderation  ; 
And  thought  the  Church  in  danger  was, 

By  such  prevarication. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

When  George  in  pudding-time  came  o'er, 

And  moderate  men  look'd  big,  Sir, 
My  principles  I  chang'd  once  more, 

And  so  became  a  Whig,  Sir ; 
And  thus  preferment  I  procur'd 

From  our  new  f aith's-def ender ; 
And  almost  every  day  abjur'd 

The  Pope  and  the  Pretender. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

Th'  illustrious  house  of  Hanover, 

And  Protestant  succession, 
To  them  I  do  allegiance  swear  — 

While  they  can  hold  possession; 
For  in  my  faith  and  loyalty 

I  never  more  will  falter, 
And  George  my  lawful  king  shall  be  — 

Until  the  times  do  alter. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

Anonymous 


140  Poetry  of  the  People 

LVI 

of  nttbmontJ  l)i 


On  Richmond  Hill  there  lives  a  lass, 

More  sweet  than  May-day  morn, 
Whose  charms  all  other  maids'  surpass. 

A  rose  without  a  thorn. 
This  lass  so  neat,  with  smiles  so  sweet, 

Has  won  my  right  good  will, 
I  'd  crowns  resign  to  call  her  mine 

Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill  ! 

Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill  !    Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill  ! 
I  'd  crowns  resign  to  call  her  mine  ; 

Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill  ! 

Ye  Zephyrs  gay,  that  fan  the  air, 

And  wanton  through  the  grove, 
Oh  !  whisper  to  my  charming  fair, 

I  die  for  her,  and  love. 
This  lass  so  neat,  etc. 

How  happy  will  the  shepherd  be, 
Who  calls  this  nymph  his  own  ;  — 

Oh  !  may  her  choice  be  fix'd  on  me, 
Mine  's  fix'd  on  her  alone. 

This  lass  so  neat,  etc. 

McNally 


A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea  141 

LVII 
®3Het  §>&eet  auto  a  jFlotowj 


A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast  ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There  's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners  I 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free  — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

A.  Cunningham 


142  Poetry  of  the  People 

LVIII 
Poor  Com  -Bawling; 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew, 
No  more  he  '11  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  Death  has  broach'd  him  to : 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 
Faithful  below  he  did  his  duty, 

And  now  he  's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare  ; 
His  friends  were  many,  and  true-hearted, 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair : 
And  then  he  'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly,  — 

Ah,  many  's  the  time  and  oft ! 
But  mirth  is  turn'd  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He  who  all  commands 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together, 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doff'd ; 
For  though  his  body  's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft 


C.  Dibdin 


BOOK   THIRD  —  POEMS   OF  SCOT- 

LAND: HISTORICAL  AND 

PATRIOTIC 


LIX 

ifi  tup  ©ton,  tnp  .Battoe  lanH 


Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well  ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell  ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim  : 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonor'd,  and  unsung. 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 
H3 


144  Poetry  of  the  People 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band, 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been, 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left; 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow's  streams  still  let  me  stray, 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way ; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 

Although  it  chill  my  wither'd  cheek ; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  Stone, 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 

The  Bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

Sir  Walter  Scoti. 


LX 

•EannotUfcurn 
ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  — 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led  — 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victorie  ! 


Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black  1 45 

Now  's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  — 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa'  — 
Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty 's  in  every  blow  ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die ! 

Robert  Burns 

LXI 

of  3D0naUj  t&e  33lacfc 

H31 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew,  summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away,  hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array,  gentles  and  commons. 


146  Poetry  of  the  People 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and  from  mountain  so  rocky, 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon  are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and  true  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and  strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd,  the  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred,  the  bride  at  the  altar ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer,  leave  nets  and  barges  •. 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear,  broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when  forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when  navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come,  faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom,  tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  ;  see  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume,  blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades,  forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


LXII 

Cljr  jFIotoew  of  the  forest ;  or,  Cbc  Battle  of  flatten 

1513 
PART  FIRST 

I  've  heard  them  lilting, 

At  our  yews'  milking,  — 
Lasses  a'  lilting  afore  break  of  day ; 

But  now  there  's  a  moaning 

On  ilka  green  loaning 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


The  Flowers  of  the  forest  1 47 

At  the  bughts,  in  the  morning, 

Nae  blithe  lads  are  scorning  ; 
The  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowie,  and  wae : 

Nae  daffing,  nae  gabbing, 

But  sighing  and  sabbing, 
Ilk  lass  takes  her  leglin,  and  hies  her  away. 

At  e'en  in  the  gloaming, 

Nae  swankies  are  roaming, 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses,  at  bogle  to  play ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  dreary, 

Lamenting  her  deary,  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

In  har'st,  at  the  shearing, 

Nae  younkers  are  jeering, 
The  bandsters  are  runkled,  Heard,  and  gray ; 

At  fair  and  at  preaching, 

Nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

O  dool  for  the  order, 

Sent  them  to  the  border, 
The  English  for  anes  by  guile  got  the  day ; 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest, 

That  aye  shone  the  fairest, 
The  prime  of  our  land  lies  cauld  in  the  clay. 

And  now  there  's  a'  moaning, 

On  ilka  green  loaning, 
The  women  and  bairns  are  dowie  and  wae ; 

There  '11  be  nae  mair  lilting, 

At  our  yews'  milking, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Jane  Elliot 


148  Poetry  of  the  People 

PART  SECOND 

I  Ve  seen  the  smiling, 

Of  Fortune  beguiling, 
I  Ve  felt  all  her  favors,  and  found  her  decay ; 

S  weet  were  her  blessings, 

Most  kind  her  caressings, 
But  now  they  are  dead,  or  a'  fled  away. 

I  've  seen  the  Forest, 

Adorn'd  of  the  foremost, 
With  flowers  of  the  fairest,  most  pleasant,  and  gay. 

Sae  bonny  their  blooming, 

Their  scent  sae  perfuming, 
But  now  they  are  wither'd,  and  a'  wede  away. 

I  Ve  seen  the  morning, 

With  gold  hills  adorning, 
And  the  red  storm  roaring  before  middle-day. 

I  Ve  seen  Tweed  streaming, 

With  sunbeams  a-shining, 
Turn  drumlie  and  dark  as  he  roll'd  on  his  way ;  — 

O  fickle  Fortune, 

Why  this  cruel  sporting, 
Why  still  thus  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a  day  ? 

No  more  thy  frowns  fear  me, 

No  more  thy  smiles  cheer  me, 
Since  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Alison  Rutherford 
(Mrs.  Pair.  Cockburn  of  Ormistori) 


Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border  149 

LXIII 
38toe  bonnets!  otocr  t&e  33orBer 

c.  1560 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale ; 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border: 

Many  a  banner  spread 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen  ; 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding, 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good  order ; 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


150  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXIV 

C&e  execution  of  ^ttontroec 
1650 

Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron, 

Come,  stand  beside  my  knee  — 
I  hear  the  river  roaring  down 

Towards  the  wintry  sea. 
There 's  shouting  on  the  mountain-side, 

There  's  war  within  the  blast  — 
Old  faces  look  upon  me, 

Old  forms  go  trooping  past ; 
I  hear  the  pibroch  wailing 

Amidst  the  din  of  fight, 
And  my  dim  spirit  wakes  again 

Upon  the  verge  of  night. 

'T  was  I  that  led  the  Highland  host 

Through  wild  Lochaber's  snows, 
What  time  the  plaided  clans  came  down 

To  battle  with  Montrose. 
I  've  told  thee  how  the  Southrons  fell 

Beneath  the  broad  claymore, 
And  how  we  smote  the  Campbell  clan, 

By  Inverlochy's  shore. 
I  've  told  thee  how  we  swept  Dundee, 

And  tamed  the  Lindsays'  pride ; 
But  never  have  I  told  thee  yet 

How  the  great  Marquis  died. 

A  traitor  sold  him  to  his  foes ; 
O  deed  of  deathless  shame  1 


The  Execution  of  Montrose  151 

I  charge  thee,  boy,  if  e'er  thou  meet 

With  one  of  Assynt's  name  — 
Be  it  upoa  the  mountain's  side, 

Or  yet  within  the  glen, 
Stand  he  in  martial  gear  alone, 

Or  backed  by  armed  men  — 
Face  him  as  thou  wouldst  face  the  man 

Who  wronged  thy  sire's  renown ; 
Remember  of  what  blood  thou  art, 

And  strike  the  caitiff  down ! 


They  brought  him  to  the  Watergate, 

Hard  bound  with  hempen  span, 
As  though  they  held  a  lion  there, 

And  not  a  fenceless  man. 
They  set  him  high  upon  a  cart  — 

The  hangman  rode  below  — 
They  drew  his  hands  behind  his  back, 

And  bared  his  noble  brow. 
Then,  as  a  hound  is  slipped  from  leash, 

They  cheered,  the  common  throng, 
And  blew  the  note  with  yell  and  shout, 

And  bade  him  pass  along. 

It  would  have  made  a  brave  man's  heart 

Grow  sad  and  sick  that  day, 
To  watch  the  keen,  malignant  eyes 

Bent  down  on  that  array. 
There  stood  the  Whig  west-country  lords, 

In  balcony  and  bow ; 
There  sat  the  gaunt  and  withered  dames, 

And  their  daughters  all  a-row. 


152  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  every  open  window 

Was  full  as  full  might  be 
With  black-robed  Covenanting  carles, 

That  goodly  sport  to  see ! 

But  when  he  came,  though  pale  and  wan, 

He  looked  so  great  and  high, 
So  noble  was  his  manly  front, 

So  calm  his  steadfast  eye  ;  — 
The  rabble  rout  forebore  to  shout, 

And  each  man  held  his  breath, 
For  well  they  knew  the  hero's  soul 
'      Was  face  to  face  with  death. 
And  then  a  mournful  shudder 

Through  all  the  people  crept, 
And  some  that  came  to  scoff  at  him 

Now  turned  aside  and  wept. 

But  onwards  —  always  onwards, 

In  silence  and  in  gloom, 
The  dreary  pageant  labored, 

Till  it  reached  the  house  of  doom. 
Then  first  a  woman's  voice  was  heard 

In  jeer  and  laughter  loud, 
And  an  angry  cry  and  a  hiss  arose 

From  the  heart  of  the  tossing  crowd: 
Then  as  the  Graeme  looked  upwards, 

He  saw  the  ugly  smile 
Of  him  who  sold  his  king  for  gold  — 

The  master-fiend  Argyle ! 

The  Marquis  gazed  a  moment, 
And  nothing  did  he  say, 


The  Execution  of  Man  f rose  153 

But  the  cheek  of  Argyle  grew  ghastly  pale 

And  he  turned  his  eyes  away. 
The  painted  harlot  by  his  side, 

She  shook  through  every  limb, 
For  a  roar  like  thunder  swept  the  street, 

And  hands  were  clenched  at  him ; 
And  a  Saxon  soldier  cried  aloud, 

"  Back,  coward,  from  thy  place ! 
For  seven  long  years  thou  hast  not  dared 

To  look  him  in  the  face." 


Had  I  been  there  with  sword  in  hand, 

And  fifty  Camerons  by, 
That  day  through  high  Dunedin's  streets 

Had  pealed  the  slogan-cry. 
Not  all  their  troops  of  trampling  horse, 

Nor  might  of  mailed  men  — 
Not  all  the  rebels  in  the  south 

Had  borne  us  backwards  then  ! 
Once  more  his  foot  on  highland  heath 

Had  trod  as  free  as  air, 
Or  I,  and  all  who  bore  my  name, 

Been  laid  around  him  there  ! 


It  might  not  be.     They  placed  him  next 

Within  the  solemn  hall, 
Where  once  the  Scottish  kings  were  throned 

Amidst  their  nobles  all. 
But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet 

On  that  polluted  floor, 
And  perjured  traitors  filled  the  place 

Where  good  men  sate  before. 


154  Poetry  of  the  People 

With  savage  glee  came  Warristoun, 
To  read  the  murderous  doom ; 

And  then  uprose  the  great  Montrose 
In  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  by  my  faith,  as  belted  knight, 

And  by  the  name  I  bear, 
And  by  the  bright  Saint  Andrew's  cross 

That  waves  above  us  there  — 
Yea,  by  a  greater,  mightier  oath  — 

And  oh,  that  such  should  be !  — 
By  that  dark  stream  of  royal  blood 

That  lies  'twixt  you  and  me  — 
I  have  not  sought  in  battle-field 

A  wreath  of  such  renown, 
Nor  dared  I  hope  on  my  dying  day 

To  win  the  martyr's  crown ! 

"  There  is  a  chamber  far  away 

Where  sleep  the  good  and  brave, 
But  a  better  place  ye  have  named  for  me 

Than  by  my  father's  grave. 
For  truth  and  right,  'gainst  treason's  might, 

This  hand  hath  always  striven, 
And  ye  raise  it  up  for  a  witness  still 

In  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Then  nail  my  head  on  yonder  tower  — 

Give  every  town  a  limb  — 
And  God  who  made  shall  gather  them : 

I  go  from  you  to  Him  !  " 

The  morning  dawned  full  darkly, 
The  rain  came  flashing  down, 


The  Execution  of  Montrose  155 

And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town  : 
The  thunder  crashed  across  the  heaven, 

The  fatal  hour  was  come ; 
Yet  aye  broke  in  with  muffled  beat, 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 

And  anger  in  the  sky, 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 


Ah,  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet ! 

How  dismal  't  is  to  see 
The  great,  tall,  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree  ! 
Hark  !  hark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms  — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll  — 
"  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming ! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul !  " 
One  last,  long  peal  of  thunder  — 

The  clouds  are  cleared  away, 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks  down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 

"  He  is  coming !  he  is  coming !  " 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 
And  he  never  walked  to  battle 

More  proudly  than  to  die ; 


156  Poetry  of  the  People 

There  was  color  in  his  visage 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan, 

And  they  marveled  as  they  saw  him  pass, 
That  great  and  goodly  man ! 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turned  him  to  the  crowd; 
But  they  dared  not  trust  the  people, 

So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 
But  he  looked  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether 

The  eye  of  God  shone  through. 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill, 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within  — 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 

The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near, 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee; 
And  veiled  his  face  for  Christ's  dear  grace 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree. 
Then  radiant  and  serene  he  rose, 

And  cast  his  cloak  away : 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him, 
Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 


The  Bonnets  o'  Bonnie  Dundee  157 

And  he  climbed  the  lofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll; 
And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft, 

For  fear  was  on  every  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush  and  then  a  groan ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky  — 

The  work  of  death  was  done ! 

William  Edmonstoune  Aytoun 


LXV 

^Sonnets  0*  Bonnie  SDtmUee 

1689 

To  the  Lords  o'  Convention  't  was  Claverhouse  who  spoke, 
Ere  the  king's  crown  go  down,  there  are  crowns  to  be  broke ; 
Then  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me 
Let  him  follow  the  bonnets  o'  bonnie  Dundee  1 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can; 
Come  saddle  my  horses,  and  call  out  my  men; 
Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us  gae  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  o"1  bonnie  Dundee! 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are  beat ; 
But  the  provost,  douce  man,  said,  "  Just  e'en  let  him  be, 
The  gude  toun  is  weel  rid  o'  that  deil  o'  Dundee ! " 


158  Poetry  of  the  People 

As  he  rode  doun  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow, 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow; 

But  the  young  plants  o'  grace  they  looked  cowthie  and  slee, 

Thinking,  Luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  bonnie  Dundee ! 

With  sour-featured  whigs  the  Grass-Market  was  thranged, 
As  if  half  the  west  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  ee, 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  o'  bonnie  Dundee. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had  spears, 
And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  cavaliers ; 
But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free 
At  the  toss  o'  the  bonnet  o'  bonnie  Dundee. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  o'  the  proud  castle  rock, 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke : 

"  Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa  words  or  three, 

For  the  love  o'  the  bonnet  o'  bonnie  Dundee." 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes. 
"  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  o'  Montrose! 
Your  grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  o'  bonnie  Dundee. 

"  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  lands  beyond  Forth ; 
If  there's  lords  in  the  lowland,  there's  chiefs  in  the  north; 
There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thousand  times  three 
Will  cry  «  Hey! '  for  the  bonnet  o'  bonnie  Dundee. 

"  There 's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull-hide, 
There 's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside ; 
The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash  free, 
At  a  toss  o'  the  bonnet  o'  bonnie  Dundee. 


The  Old  Scottish  Cavalier  159 

"  Then  awa'  to  the  hills,  to  the  lea,  to  the  rocks, 
Ere  I  own  a  usurper  I  '11  couch  with  the  fox: 
And  tremble,  false  whigs,  in  the  midst  o'  your  glee, 
Ye  hae  no  seen  the  last  o'  my  bonnet  and  me." 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were  blown, 
The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on, 
Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  o'  bonnie  Dundee. 

Come  Jill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses,  and  call  up  the  men; 
Come  open  your  doors  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For  it  V  up  with  the  bonnets  o"1  bonnie  Dundee. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


LXVI 

©in  &cotti0!)  Catoalier 
1689-1746 

Come,  listen  to  another  song, 

Should  make  your  heart  beat  high, 
Bring  crimson  to  your  forehead, 

And  the  lustre  to  your  eye;  — 
It  is  a  song  of  olden  time, 

Of  days  long  since  gone  by, 
And  of  a  baron  stout  and  bold 

As  e'er  wore  sword  on  thigh ! 

Like  a  brave  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time! 


160  Poetry  of  the  People 

He  kept  his  castle  in  the  North, 

Hard  by  the  thundering  Spey ; 
And  a  thousand  vassals  dwelt  around, 

All  of  his  kindred  they. 
And  not  a  man  of  all  that  clan 

Had  ever  ceased  to  pray 
For  the  Royal  race  they  loved  so  well, 

Though  exiled  far  away 

From  the  steadfast  Scottish  cavaliers. 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 


His  father  drew  the  righteous  sword 

For  Scotland  and  her  claims, 
Among  the  loyal  gentlemen 

And  chiefs  of  ancient  names, 
Who  swore  to  fight  or  fall  beneath 

The  standard  of  King  James, 
And  died  at  Killiecrankie  Pass, 

With  the  glory  of  the  Graemes, 
Like  a  true  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time  ! 


He  never  owned  the  foreign  rule, 

No  master  he  obeyed; 
But  kept  his  clan  in  peace  at  home 

From  foray  and  from  raid; 
And  when  they  asked  him  for  his  oath, 

He  touched  his  glittering  blade, 
And  pointed  to  his  bonnet  blue, 

That  bore  the  white  cockade : 
Like  a  leal  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 


The  Old  Scottish  Cavalier  161 

At  length  the  news  ran  through  the  land,  — 

THE  PRINCE  had  come  again! 
That  night  the  fiery  cross  was  sped 

O'er  mountain  and  through  glen ; 
And  our  old  Baron  rose  in  might, 

Like  a  lion  from  his  den, 
And  rode  away  across  the  hills 

To  Charlie  and  his  men, 

With  the  valiant  Scottish  cavaliers, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 

He  was  the  first  that  bent  the  knee 

When  the  Standard  waved  abroad; 
He  was  the  first  that  charged  the  foe 

On  Preston's  bloody  sod ; 
And  ever  in  the  van  of  fight 

The  foremost  still  he  trod, 
Until  on  bleak  Culloden's  heath 

He  gave  his  soul  to  God, 

Like  a  good  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time  1 

Oh !  never  shall  we  know  again 

A  heart  so  stout  and  true  — 
The  olden  times  have  passed  away, 

And  weary  are  the  new  : 
The  fair  White  Rose  has  faded 

From  the  garden  where  it  grew, 
And  no  fond  tears,  save  those  of  heaven, 
The  glorious  bed  bedew 

Of  the  last  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 

William  Edmonstoune  Aytoun 


1 62  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXVII 

CI)c  lament  of  flora  #rlacoonalB 
1746 

Far  over  yon  hills  of  the  heather  sae  green, 

An'  doun  by  the  Corrie  that  sings  to  the  sea, 
The  bonnie  young  Flora  sat  sighing  her  lane, 

The  dew  on  her  plaid  an'  the  tear  in  her  e'e. 
She  look'd  at  a  boat  wi'  the  breezes  that  swung, 

Away  on  the  wave,  like  a  bird  of  the  main ; 
An'  aye  as  it  lessen'd  she  sighed  an'  she  sung, 

"  Fareweel  to  the  lad  I  shall  ne'er  see  again ; 
Fareweel  to  my  hero,  the  gallant  an'  young, 

Fareweel  to  the  lad  I  shall  ne'er  see  again ! 

"  The  moorcock  that  crows  on  the  brows  o'  Ben-ConnaJ, 

He  kens  o'  his  bed  in  a  sweet  mossy  hame ; 
The  eagle  that  soars  o'er  the  cliffs  o'  Clan-Ronald, 

Unawed  and  unhunted  his  eyrie  can  claim  ; 
The  solan  can  sleep  on  the  shelve  of  the  shores ; 

The  cormorant  roost  on  his  rock  of  the  sea ; 
But,  ah !  there  is  one  whose  hard  fate  I  deplore, 

Nor  house,  ha',  nor  hame  in  his  country  has  he ; 
The  conflict  is  past,  and  our  name  is  no  more, 

There 's  nought  left  but  sorrow  for  Scotland  an'  me  ! 

"  The  target  is  torn  from  the  arm  of  the  just, 
The  helmet  is  cleft  on  the  brow  of  the  brave, 

The  claymore  forever  in  darkness  must  rust ; 
But  red  is  the  sword  of  the  stranger  and  slave ; 

The  hoof  of  the  horse,  and  the  foot  of  the  proud, 
Have  trod  o'er  the  plumes  on  the  bonnet  of  blue ; 


Woe 's  Me  for  Prince  Charlie  163 

Why  slept  the  red  bolt  in  the  breast  of  the  cloud 
When  tyranny  reveled  in  blood  of  the  true  ? 

Fareweel,  my  young  hero,  the  gallant  and  good ! 
The  crown  of  thy  fathers  is  torn  from  thy  brow." 

Arranged  by  James  Hogg 


LXVIII 

(SSHae's  JKe  for  Prince  C&arltt 

1746 

A  wee  bird  cam'  to  our  ha'  door, 

He  warbled  sweet  an'  clearly, 
An'  aye  the  o'er-come  o'  his  sang 

Was  "  Wae  's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  !  " 
Oh !  when  I  heard  the  bonnie,  bonnie  bird, 

The  tears  cam'  drappin'  rarely, 
I  took  my  bannet  aff  my  head, 

For  weel  I  lo'ed  Prince  Charlie. 

Quoth  I,  "  My  bird,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bird, 

Is  that  a  sang  ye  borrow, 
Are  these  some  words  ye  've  learnt  by  heart, 

Or  a  lilt  o'  dool  an'  sorrow?  " 
"  Oh !  no,  no,  no,"  the  wee  bird  sang, 

"  I  've  flown  sin'  mornin'  early, 
But  sic  a  day  o'  wind  an'  rain  — 

Oh  !  wae  's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ! 

"  On  hills  that  are,  by  right,  his  ain, 

He  roves  a  lanely  stranger, 
On  every  side  he 's  pressed  by  want, 

On  every  side  is  danger ; 


164  Poetry  of  the  People 

Yestreen  I  met  him  in  a  glen, 

My  heart  maist  burstit  fairly, 
For  sadly  changed  indeed  was  he  — 

Oh !  wae  's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ! 

"  Dark  night  cam'  on,  the  tempest  roared 

Loud  o'er  the  hills  an'  valleys, 
An'  where  was  't  that  your  Prince  lay  doun, 

Wha  's  hame  should  been  a  palace? 
He  rowed  him  in  a  Highland  plaid, 

Which  covered  him  but  sparely, 
An'  slept  beneath  a  bush  o'  broom  — 

Oh !  wae 's  me  for  Prince  Charlie ! " 

But  now  the  bird  saw  some  redcoats, 

An'  he  shook  his  wings  wi'  anger, 
"  Oh !  this  is  no  a  land  for  me  ; 

I  '11  tarry  here  nae  langer  !  " 
He  hovered  on  the  wing  a  while 

Ere  he  departed  fairly, 
But  weel  I  mind  the  fareweel  strain 

Was,  "  Wae 's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  !  " 

Attributed  to  William  Glen 


The  Campbells  are  comin',  Oho,  Oho, 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  Oho,  Oho, 

The  Campbells  are  comin'  to  bonnie  Lochleven, 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  Oho,  Oho ! 


The  Blue  Bell  of  Scotland  165 

Upon  the  Lomonds,  'I  lay,  I  lay, 
Upon  the  Lomonds,  I  lay,  I  lay, 
I  lookit  down  to  bonnie  Lochleven, 
And  saw  three  bonnie  perches  play. 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  etc. 

Great  Argyle  he  goes  before, 
He  makes  his  cannons  and  guns  to  roar ; 
Wi'  sound  o'  trumpet,  fife,  and  drum, 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  Oho,  Oho ! 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  etc. 

The  Campbells  they  are  a'  wi'  arms, 
Their  loyal  faith  and  truth  to  show, 
Wi'  banners  rattlin'  in  the  wind 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  Oho,  Oho ! 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  etc. 

Anonymous 

LXX 

Che  33ltte  -Sell  of  ^cotton* 

Oh,  where  ?  and  oh,  where  is  your  Highland  laddie  gone  ? 
Oh,  where?  and  oh,  where  is  your  Highland  laddie  gone? 
He  's  gone  to  fight  the  French  for  King  George  upon  the 

throne, 

And  it 's  oh,  in  my  heart  how  I  wish  him  safe  at  home ! 
He 's  gone  to  fight  the  French  for  King  George  upon  the 

throne, 
And  it 's  oh,  in  my  heart  how  I  wish  him  safe  at  home ! 

Oh,  where  ?  and  oh,  where  does  your  Highland  laddie  dwell  ? 
Oh,  where  ?  and  oh,  where  does  your  Highland  laddie  dwell  ? 


1 66  Poetry  of  the  People 

He  dwells  in  merrie  Scotland,  at  the  sign  of  the  Blue  Bell ; 
And  it 's  oh,  in  my  heart  that  I  lo'e  my  laddie  well ! 
He  dwells  in  merrie  Scotland,  etc. 

What  clothes,  in  what  clothes  is  your  Highland  laddie  clad? 
What  clothes,  in  what  clothes  is  your  Highland  laddie  clad  ? 
His  bonnet's  of  the  Saxon  green,  his  waistcoat's  of  the 

plaid, 

And  it's  oh,  in  my  heart  that  I  lo'e  my  Highland  lad! 
His  bonnet 's  of  the  Saxon  green,  etc. 

Suppose,  oh  suppose  that  your  Highland  lad  should  die  ? 
Suppose,  oh  suppose  that  your  Highland  lad  should  die? 
The  bagpipes  shall  play  o'er  him,  I  '11  lay  me  doun  and  cry; 
And  it's  oh,  in  my  heart,  that  I  wish  he  may  not  die  ! 

The  bagpipes  shall  play  o'er  him,  etc. 

Anonymous 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS  AND   BALLADS 

LXXI 
ftnnie  Laurie 

c.  1700 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew  ; 
An'  it 's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true ; 
Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  sail  be; 


Lochaber  No  More  167 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift, 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan, 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on ; 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on  — 

An'  dark  blue  is  her  ee ; 
An'  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 
Like  simmer  breezes  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  an'  sweet ; 
Her  voice  is  low  an'  sweet  — 

An'  she 's  a'  the  world  to  me ; 
An'  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

William  Douglas  of  Fingland 

and  Lady  John  Scott 


LXXII 

Lotljaber  Jfto  JHore 

c.  1720 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  and  farewell,  my  Jean, 
Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  Ve  mony  days  been ; 
For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more, 
We  '11  may  be  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 


1  68  Poetry  of  the  People 

These  tears  that  I  shed,  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  no  for  the  dangers  attending  on  weir'  ; 
Tho'  bore  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody  shore, 
May  be  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 

Tho'  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every  wind, 
They  '11  ne'er  make  a  tempest  like  that  in  my  mind. 
Tho'  loudest  of  thunder  on  louder  waves  roar, 
That  's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behind  me,  my  heart  is  sair  pain'dc 
By  ease  that  's  inglorious,  no  fame  can  be  gain'd  ; 
And  beauty  and  love  's  the  reward  of  the  brave, 
And  I  must  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeanie,  maun  plead  my  excuse, 
Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I  refuse  ? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  honor  for  thee  ; 
And  without  thy  favor,  I  'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honor  and  fame, 
And  if  I  should  luck  to  come  gloriously  hame, 
A  heart  I  '11  bring  to  thee  with  love  running  o'er, 
And  then  I  '11  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no  more. 

Allan  Ramsay 


LXXIII 

'a  J&ae  Lttrft  about  t&e 


And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he  's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  talk  o'  wark  ? 

Ye  jauds  fling  by  your  wheel  ! 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark, 

When  Colin  's  at  the  door  ? 


There  's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House  169 

Rax  doun  my  cloak,  I  '11  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There 's  nae  luck  at  a', 
There 's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

When  our  guidman  's  awa'. 

Rise  up  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  goun, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday's  coat ; 
And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  guidman, 

He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 
For  there 's  nae  luck,  etc. 

There 's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  bauk 

Hae  fed  this  month  and  mair, 
Mak'  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare  : 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw ; 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared, 

When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 
For  there 's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Come,  g!e  me  doun  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop-satin  goun ; 
And  rin  and  tell  the  Bailie's  wife 

That  Colin 's  come  to  town : 
My  Turkey-slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  hose  o'  pearl  blue  ; 


1 7  o  Poetry  of  the  People 

It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  guidman, 
For  he  's  baith  leal  and  true. 
For  there 's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Sae  sweet  his  voice,  sae  smooth  his  tongue. 

His  breath  like  caller  air ! 
His  very  fit  has  music  in 't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair : 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I  'm  dounricht  dizzy  wi'  the  thocht, 

In  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there  's  nae  luck,  etc. 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind, 

That  thirled  through  my  heart, 
They  're  a'  blawn  by,  I  hae  him  safe, 

Till  death  we  '11  never  part : 
But  what  puts  parting  in  my  held, 

It  may  be  far  awa' ; 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  we  never  saw ! 
For  there  's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Since  Colin  's  weel,  I  'm  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak'  him  blest, 

I  'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I  'm  dounricht  dizzy  wi'  the  thocht, 

In  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there 's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Attributed  to  William  Julius  Micklf 


For  a'  that,  and  a'  that  171 

LXXIV 
21  EeS,  EeU  Host 

O,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 
O,  my  luve 's  like  the  melodie 

That 's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 
I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve, 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile  ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Revised  by  Robert  Burns 

LXXV 

jFor  a*  t&at.  anto  a*  t&at 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 

The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by ; 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 


172  Poetry  of  the  People 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that : 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 
The  man  's  the  gowd  for  a'  that ! 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 
Wear  hodden-grey,  and  a'  that  ? 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that : 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that ! 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that: 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that : 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that! 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might : 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may  — 
As  come  it  will  for  a'  that  — 


John  Anderson,  my  Jo  173 

That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that ! 

Robert  Burns 


LXXVI 


John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw, 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We  Ve  had  wi'  ane  anither : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand-in-hand  we  '11  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns 


174  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXXVII 

(Mlater 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise  ; 
My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream,  — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen, 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair.  • 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills  ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow  ; 
There  oft  as  mild  ev'ning  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides  ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays  ; 
My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream,  — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Robert  Burns 


Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon  175 

LXXVIII 
|3c  4San&0  ani  -Braes  o'  -iSonnte  3Daan 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair ! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  f u'  o'  care ! 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve ; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Robert  Burns 


1  76  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXXIX 
jlp  peart  'B  in  t(je 

My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here; 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover'd  with  snow  ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below  ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  ; 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Robert  Burns 


LXXX 

of 


"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I  '11  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride  : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  "  — 


Jock  of  Hazddean  177 

But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 
For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 
And  you  the  foremost  o'  them  a' 

Shall  ride  our  forest-queen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there  : 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha' ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen ! 
She  's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 
Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


1 78  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXXXI 
ioclnnbat 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  young  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all 

Then  spake  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 

"  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied ; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet :  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 


Lochinvar  179 

She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure!"  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume ; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'T  were  better  by  far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood 

near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 
"  She  is  won !  we  are  gone  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They  '11    have    fleet    steeds   that    follow,"   quoth    young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan ; 

Forsters,  Fen  wicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran  : 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


180  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXXXII 

GiSUcn  tljc  t\j'c  Comes  f)amc 

Come  all  ye  jolly  shepherds 

That  whistle  through  the  glen, 
I  '11  tell  ye  of  a  secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken : 
What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o'  man  can  name  ? 
'T  is  to  woo  a  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 
When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 
'Tween  the  gloamin'  and  the  mirk, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

'T  is  not  beneath  the  coronet, 

Nor  canopy  of  state, 
'T  is  not  on  couch  of  velvet, 

Nor  arbor  of  the  great : 
'T  is  beneath  the  spreading  birk, 

In  the  dell  without  a  name, 
Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

There  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest 
For  the  mate  he  lo'es  to  see, 

And  up  upon  the  tapmost  bough, 
O,  a  happy  bird  is  he ! 

Then  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 
And  love  't  is  a'  the  theme, 


When  the  Kye  Comes  Hamc  181 

And  he  '11  woo  his  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  bluart  bears  a  pearl, 

And  the  daisy  turns  a  pea, 
And  the  bonnie  lucken  gowan 

Has  fauldit  up  his  e'e, 
Then  the  laverock  frae  the  blue  lift 

Doops  down,  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Then  since  all  nature  joins 

In  this  love  without  alloy, 
Wha  wad  prove  a  traitor 

To  Nature's  dearest  joy  ? 
O,  wha  wad  choose  a  crown, 

Wi'  its  perils  and  its  fame, 
And  miss  his  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame  ? 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd 

That  lingers  on  the  hill  — 
His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld, 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still ; 
Yet  he  downa  gang  to  rest, 

For  his  heart  is  in  a  flame 
To  meet  his  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 

Rises  high  in  the  breast, 
Art'  the  little  wee  bit  starn 

Rises  red  in  the  east, 


1 8  2  Poetry  of  the  People 

O,  there  's  a  joy  so  dear 
That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame, 

Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

James  Hogg 


LXXXIII 

ie,  t&e  Jlotoer  of  SDttm&lane 


The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Benlomond, 

And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o'er  the  scene, 
While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  simmer  gloamin' 

To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane. 
How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  saft  faulding  blossom, 

And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  mantle  o'  green  ; 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom, 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane. 

She  's  modest  as  ony,  and  blythe  as  she  's  bonny  ; 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  ; 
And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  o'  feeling, 

Wha  'd  blight,  in  its  bloom,  the  sweet  flower  o'  Dumblane. 
Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the  e'ening, 

Thou  'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen  ; 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi'  my  Jessie, 
The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain  ; 

I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  could  ca'  my  dear  lassie, 

Till  charm'd  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane. 


2'he  Bonnie  Banks  0'  Loch  Lomond  183 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o'  loftiest  grandeur, 
Amidst  its  profusion  I  'd  languish  in  pain ; 

And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o'  its  splendor, 
If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane. 

Robert  Tannahill 


LXXXIV 
-Bonnie  3Sanfc6  a'  Loci)  Lomonti 

By  yon  bonnie  banks  and  by  yon  bonnie  braes, 
Where  the  sun  shines  bright  on  Loch  Lomon', 
Where  me  and  my  true  love  were  ever  wont  to  gae, 
On  the  bonnie,  bonnie  banks  o'  Loch  Lomon'. 

O  ye  '11  tak  the  high  road  and  I  '11  tak  the  low  road, 

And  I  '11  be  in  Scotland  afore  ye ; 

But  me  and  my  true  love  will  never  meet  again 

On  the  bonnie,  bonnie  banks  o'  Loch  Lomon'. 

'T  was  there  that  we  parted  in  yon  shady  glen, 
On  the  steep,  steep  side  o'  Ben  Lomon', 
Where  in  purple  hue  the  Hieland  hills  we  view, 
And  the  moon  coming  out  in  the  gloamin'.  —  Cho. 

The  wee  birdies  sing  and  the  wild  flowers  spring, 
And  in  sunshine  the  waters  are  sleepin' ; 
But  the  broken  heart  it  kens  nae  second  spring  again 
Though  the  waefu'  may  cease  from  their  greetin.' —  Cho 

Anonymous 


1 84  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXXXV 

CI)c  Lanti  o'  tljc  leal 

I  'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean, 

Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  Jean  ; 

I  'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There  's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There 's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Ye  've  been  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  task  is  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I  '11  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Our  bonnie  bairn  's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  Jean, 
And  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  Jean, 
And  joy  is  comin'  fast,  Jean, 
Joy  that 's  aye  to  last 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Then  dry  that  glist'nin'  e'e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

A'  our  friends  are  gane,  Jean, 
We  Ve  lang  been  left  alane,  Jean, 


Auld  Lang  Syne  185 

We  '11  a'  meet  again 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now,  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean, 
We  '11  meet  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Lady  Nairne 


LXXXVI 

lanj 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne,  — 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we  've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 


i86  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  here  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie  's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 

And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I  '11  be  mine  ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 

Robert  Burns 


BOOK  FOURTH—  POEMS   OF  IRE- 

LAND:  HISTORICAL   AND 

PATRIOTIC 


LXXXVII 

careen  little  §>&amrorft  of 

1806 

There  's  a  dear  little  plant  that  grows  in  our  isle, 
'T  was  St.  Patrick  himself,  sure,  that  set  it  ; 

And  the  sun  on  his  labor  with  pleasure  did  smile, 
And  with  dew  from  his  eye  often  wet  it. 

It  thrives  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  and  the 
mireland  ; 

And  its  name  is  the  dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland  — 
The  sweet  little  shamrock,  the  dear  little  shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of  Ireland  1 

This  dear  little  plant  still  grows  in  our  land, 

Fresh  and  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Erin, 
Whose  smiles  can  bewitch,  whose  eyes  can  command, 

In  what  climate  they  chance  to  appear  in  ; 
For  they  shine  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  and 

the  mireland  ; 
Just  like  their  own  dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland. 

The  sweet  little  shamrock,  the  dear  little  shamrock, 

The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of  Ireland  ! 
187 


i88  Poetry  of  the  People 

This  dear  little  plant  that  springs  from  our  soil, 

When  its  three  little  leaves  are  extended, 
Betokens  that  each  for  the  other  should  toil, 

And  ourselves  by  ourselves  be  befriended, — 
And  still  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  and  the 

mireland, 
From  one   root  should   branch,   like   the   shamrock   of 

Ireland. 

The  sweet  little  shamrock,  the  dear  little  shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of  Ireland  I 

Andrew  Cherry 


LXXXVIII 

3frtfiil)  SSEife 

(EARL  DESMOND'S  APOLOGY) 
1376 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life  — 
An  outlaw,  so  I  'm  near  her, 

To  love  till  death  my  Irish  wife. 

Oh,  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine? 

A  ruined,  hermit-haunted  place, 
But  for  the  light  that  still  will  shine 

Upon  its  walls  from  Kathleen's  face ! 


The  Irish  Wife  189 

What  comfort  in  a  mine  of  gold  ? 

What  pleasure  in  a  royal  life  ? 
If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold, 

If  I  could  not  wed  my  Irish  wife. 

I  knew  the  laws  forbade  the  banns, 

I  knew  my  King  abhorred  her  race : 
Who  never  bent  before  their  clans 

Must  bow  before  their  ladies'  grace. 
Take  all  my  forfeited  domain, 

I  cannot  wage  with  kinsmen  strife,  — 
Take  knightly  gear  and  noble  name, 

And  I  will  keep  my  Irish  wife. 

My  Irish  wife  has  clear  blue  eyes, 

My  heaven  by  day,  my  stars  by  night, 
And,  twin-like,  truth  and  fondness  lie 

Within  her  swelling  bosom  white. 
My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair  — 

Apollo's  harp  had  once  such  strings,  — 
Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  hear 

Her  birdlike  carol  when  she  sings. 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand. 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life  ; 
In  death  I  would  lie  near  her, 

And  rise  beside  my  Irish  wife. 

Thomas  D'Arcy  Me  Gee 


190  Poetry  of  the  People 

LXXXIX 
JDarfc  Koealeen 

[FROM  THE  IRISH,    c.  1590] 

O  my  Dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  I 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  Deep. 
There  's  wine  .  .  .  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green ; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Over  hills  and  through  dales 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake ; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,  ...  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
O  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 
To  and  fro,  do  I  move, 


Dark  Rosaleen  191 

The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  ...  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  .  .  .  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen ; 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

'T  is  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal : 
Your  holy,  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  ...  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You  '11  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 


192  Poetry  of  the  People 

You  '11  think  of  me  through  daylight's  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen? 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
O,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in 'prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  .  .  .  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

O !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  warp  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan  cry, 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

James  Clarence  Mangan 


The  Battle  of  the  Boyne  193 

XC 

(£&e  battle  of  tbe  3Sopne 

1690 

July  the  first,  in  Oldbridge  town,  there  was  a  grievous  battle, 
Where  many  a  man  lay  on  the  ground  by  cannons  that  did 

rattle. 
King  James  he  pitched  his  tents  between  the  lines  for  to 

retire ; 
But  King  William  threw  his  bomb-balls  in,  and  set  them  all 

on  fire. 

Thereat  enraged  they  vowed  revenge  upon  King  William's 

forces, 

And  oft  did  vehemently  cry  that  they  would  stop  their  courses. 
A  bullet  from  the  Irish  came  and  grazed  King  William's  arm, 
They  thought  his  .majesty  was  slain,  yet  it  did  him  little  harm. 

Duke  Schomberg  then,  in  friendly  care,  his  King  would 

often  caution 
To  shun  the  spot  where  bullets  hot  retained  the.ir  rapid 

motion ; 
But  William  said,  he  don't  deserve  the  name  of  Faith's 

defender, 
Who  would  not  venture  life  and  limb  to  make  a  foe  surrender. 

When  we    the    Boyne   began   to   cross,    the   enemy   they 

descended ; 

But  few  of  our  brave  men  were  lost,  so  stoutly  we  defended  ; 
The  horse  was  the  first  that  marched  o'er,  the  foot  soon 

followed  after ; 
But  brave  Duke  Schomberg  was  no  more  by  venturing  over 

the  water. 


194  Poetry  of  the  People 

When  valiant  Schomberg  he  was  slain,  King  William  did 

accost 

His  warlike  men  for  to  march  on  and  he  would  be  foremost ; 
"  Brave  boys,"  he  said,  "  be  not  dismayed  for  the  loss  of 

one  commander, 
For  God  will  be  our  king  this  day,  and  I  '11  be  general 

under." 

Then  stoutly  we  the  Boyne  did  cross,  to  give  the  enemies 

battle : 
Our  cannon,  to  our  foe's  great  cost,  like  thundering  claps 

did  rattle. 
In   majestic   mien   our   Prince   rode    o'er,   his    men    soon 

followed  after, 
With  blow  and  shout  put  our  foes  to  the  rout  the  day  we 

crossed  the  water. 

The  Protestants  of  Drogheda  have  reason  to  be  thankful, 
That  they  were  not  to  bondage  brought,  they  being  but  a 

handful, 
First  to  the  Tholsel  they  were  brought,  and  tried  at  the 

Millmount  after ; 
But  brave  King  William  set  them  free  by  venturing  over 

the  water. 

The  cunning  French  near  to  Duleek  had  taken  up  their 

quarters, 
And  fenced  themselves  on  every  side,  still  waiting  for  new 

orders ; 
But  in  the  dead  time  of  the  night,  they  set  the  fields  on 

fire, 
And  long  before  the  morning  light,  to   Dublin  they  did 

retire. 


After  Aughrim  195 

Then  said  King  William  to  his  men,  after  the  French 
departed, 

"I  'm  glad"  (said  he)  "that  none  of  ye  seem  to  be  faint- 
hearted ; 

So  sheath  your  swords  and  rest  awhile,  in  time  we  '11  follow 
after  " ; 

Those  words  he  uttered  with  a  smile  the  day  he  crossed  the 
water. 

Come  let  us  all  with  heart  and  voice  applaud  our  lives' 

defender, 
Who  at  the  Boyne  his  valor  showed  and  made  his  foe 

surrender. 
To  God  above  the  praise  we  '11  give  both  now  and  ever 

after ; 
And  bless  the  glorious  memory  of  King  William  that  crossed 

the  water. 

Attributed  to  Captain  Blacker 


XCI 


1691 

Do  you  remember  long  ago, 

Kathaleen  ? 

When  your  lover  whispered  low, 
"  Shall  I  stay  or  shall  I  go, 

Kathaleen  ?  " 

And  you  answered  proudly,  "  Go  ! 
And  join  King  James  and  strike  a  blow 

For  the  Green." 


196  Poetry  of  the  People 

Mavrone,  your  hair  is  white  as  snow, 

Kathaleen ; 

Your  heart  is  sad  and  full  of  woe, 
Do  you  repent  you  bade  him  go, 

Kathaleen  ? 

But  quick  you  answer  proudly,  "  No ! 
For  better  die  with  Sarsfield  so, 
Than  live  a  slave  without  a  blow 

For  the  Green." 

Arthur  Gerald  Geoghegan 

XCII 

Cljr  S>I)an  Han  Uorljt 
1797 

The  sainted  isle  of  old, 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht, 
The  parent  and  the  mould 
Of  the  beautiful  and  bold, 
Has  her  sainted  heart  waxed  cold? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 

Oh !  the  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht; 
Oh  !  the  French  are  in  the  bay ; 
They  '11  be  here  without  delay, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 

Oh  /  the  French  are  in  the  bay, 
They  '//  be  here  by  break  of  day, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 


The  Shan  Van  Vocht  197 

And  their  camp  it  shall  be  where? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht j 
Their  camp  it  shall  be  where  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 
On  the  Currach  of  Kildare ; 
The  boys  they  will  be  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 
To  the  Currach  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  will  repair, 
And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there, 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 

Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht ; 
What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they  '11  be  true 
To  the  shan  van  vocht  ? 

What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they '//  be  true 
To  the  shan  van  vocht  ? 

And  what  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht  j 
What  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 


198  Poetry  of  the  People 

What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'1  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht j 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  shan  van  vocht; 
Yes  !  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty ! 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 
Yes!  Ireland  SHALL  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea; 
Then  hurrah  for  Liberty  ! 
Says  the  shan  van  vocht. 

Anonymous 
\ 

XCIII 

C&e  Shearing;  of  tfce  <5reen 
1798 

0  Paddy  dear,  and  did  you  hear  the  news  that 's  going 

round  ? 

The  shamrock  is  forbid  by  law  to  grow  on  Irish  ground ; 
St.  Patrick's  day  no  more  we  '11  keep,  his  colors  can't  be 

seen, 
For  there  's  a  bloody  law  agin'  the  wearing  of  the  green. 

1  met  with  Napper  Tandy,  and  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  he  said,  "  How  's  poor  old  Ireland,  and  how  does  she 

stand?" 


The  Wearing  of  the  Green  199 

She  's  the  most  distressful  country  that  ever  yet  was  seen, 
They  are  hanging  men  and  women  there  for  wearing  of  the 
green. 

Then  since  the  color  we  must  wear  is  England's  cruel  red, 
Sure  Ireland's  sons  will  ne'er  forget  the  blood  that  they 

have  shed : 
You  may  take  the  shamrock  from  your  hat  and  cast  it  on 

the  sod, 
But  't  will  take  root  and  flourish  still,  though  under  foot 

't  is  trod. 
When  the  law  can  stop  the  blades  of  grass  from  growing  as 

they  grow, 
And  when  the  leaves  in  summer-time  their  color  cease  to 

show, 

Then  I  will  change  the  favor  that  I  wear  in  my  caubeen, 
But  till  that  day,  please  God,  I  '11  stick  to  wearing  of  the 

green. 

But  if  at  last  our  color  should  be  torn  from  Ireland's  heart, 
Her  sons  with  shame  and  sorrow  from  the  dear  old  soil  will 

part; 

I  've  heard  whisper  of  a  country  that  lies  far  beyond  the  sea, 
Where  rich  and  poor  stand  equal  in  the  light  of  freedom's 

day :  — 

O  Erin,  must  we  leave  you,  driven  by  the  tyrant's  hand  ? 
Must  we  ask  a  mother's  blessing  from  a  strange  and  dis- 
tant land? 

Where  the  cruel  cross  of  England  shall  nevermore  be  seen, 
And  where,  please  God,  we  '11  live  and  die  still  wearing  of 
the  green. 

Street  Ballad 


Poetry  of  the  People 
XCIV 

;fftemorj»  of  t&e  SDeaB 

1798 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 
He  's  all  a  knave  or  half  a  slave 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few  — 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too ; 
All,  all  are  gone  —  but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died ; 
All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit 's  still  at  home. 


The  Memory  of  the  Deaa  201 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas!  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right — 

They  fell,  and  passed  away ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here  's  their  memory  —  may  it  be 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite ! 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate ; 
And  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 

John  Kells  Ingrain 


202  Poetry  of  the  People 

XCV 


The   Geraldines!  the  Geraldines!  —  'tis   full   a   thousand 

years 
Since,    'mid   the    Tuscan   vineyards,   bright  flashed   their 

battle-spears  ; 
When  Capet  seized  the  crown  of  France,  their  iron  shields 

were  known, 
And  their  sabre  dint  struck  terror  on  the  banks  of   the 

Garonne  ; 
Across  the  downs  of  Hastings  they  spurred  hard  by  Wil- 

liam's side, 
And  the  grey  sands  of  Palestine  with  Moslem  blood  they 

dyed  ; 
But  never  then,  nor  thence  till  now,  have  falsehood  or 

disgrace 
Been  seen  to  soil  Fitzgerald's  plume,  or  mantle  in  his  face. 

The  Geraldines  !    the  Geraldines  !  —  't  is  true,  in  Strong- 

bow's  van, 

By  lawless  force,  as  conquerors,  their  Irish  reign  began  ; 
And,  O  !  through  many  a  dark  campaign  they  proved  their 

prowess  stern, 
In   Leinster's  plains,  and   Munster's  vales,  on   king,    and 

chief,  and  kerne  : 

But  noble  was  the  cheer  within  the  halls  so  rudely  won, 
And  generous  was  the  steel-gloved  hand  that  had   such 

slaughter  done  ! 
How  gay  their  laugh  !  how  proud  their  mien  !  you  'd  ask 

no  herald's  sign  — 
Among  a  thousand  you  had  known  the  princely  Geraldine. 


The  Geraldincs  203 

These  Geraldines  !    these   Geraldines !  —  not  long  our  air 

they  breathed, 

Not  long  they  fed  on  venison,  in  Irish  water  seethed, 
Not    often    had    their    children    been    by    Irish    mothers 

nursed, 
When  from  their  full  and  genial  hearts  an  Irish  feeling 

burst ! 
The  English  monarchs  strove  in  vain,  by  law,  and  force, 

and  bribe, 
To  win  from   Irish  thoughts  and  ways  this  "  more  than 

Irish  "  tribe ; 
For  still  they  clung  to  fosterage,  to  Brehon,  cloak,  and 

bard: 

What  king  dare  say  to  Geraldine,  "  Your  Irish  wife  dis- 
card?" 

Ye  Geraldines  !  ye  Geraldines  !  how  royally  ye  reigned 
O'er  Desmond  broad  and  rich  Kildare,  and  English   arts 

disdained : 
Your  sword  made  knights,  your  banner  waved,  free  was 

your  bugle  call 
By  Glyn's  green  slopes,  and  Dingle's  tide,  from  Barrow's 

banks  to  Eochaill,1 
What  gorgeous  shrines,  what  Brehon  lore,  what  minstrel 

feasts  there  were 
In  and  around  Magh  Nuadhaid's2  keep,  and  palace-filled 

Adare ! 
But  not  for  rite  or  feast  ye  stayed  when  friend  or  kin  were 

pressed ; 
And  foemen  fled  when  "  Crom  abu "  bespoke  your  lance 

in  rest. 

l  Engl.  Youghal  2  Engl.  Maynooth. 


ao4  Poetry  of  the  People 

Ye  Geraldines !  ye  Geraldines !  since  Silken  Thomas  flung 
King  Henry's  sword  on  council  board,  the  English  thanes 

among, 

Ye  never  ceased  to  battle  brave  against  the  English  sway, 
Though  axe  and  brand  and  treachery  your  proudest  cut 

away. 
Of  Desmond's  blood  through  woman's  veins  passed  on  the 

exhausted  tide ; 

His  title  lives  —  a  Sassanach  churl  usurps  the  lion's  hide ; 
And  though  Kildare  tower  haughtily,  there's  nun  at  the 

root, 
Else  why,  since  Edward  fell  to  earth,  had  such  a  tree  no 

fruit? 

True  Geraldines !  brave  Geraldines  1  as  torrents  mould  the 

earth, 
You  channeled  deep  old  Ireland's  heart  by  constancy  and 

worth : 

When  Ginckle  leaguered  Limerick,  the  Irish  soldiers  gazed 
To  see  if  in  the  setting  sun  dead  Desmond's  banner  blazed! 
And  still  it  is  the  peasants'  hope  upon  the  Curragh's  mere, 
"  They  live  who  '11  see  ten  thousand  men  with  good  Lord 

Edward  here." 
So  let  them  dream  till  brighter  days,  when,  not  by  Edward's 

shade, 
But  by  some  leader  true  as  he,  their  lines  shall  be  arrayed ! 

These  Geraldines!  these  Geraldines!  rain  wears  away  the 

rock, 
And  time  may  wear  away  the  tribe  that  stood  the  battle's 

shock, 

But  ever,  sure,  while  one  is  left  of  all  that  honored  race, 
In  front  of  Ireland's  chivalry  is  that  Fitzgerald's  place  ; 


Soggarth  Aroon  205 

And  though  the  last  were  dead  and  gone,  how  many  a  field 

and  town, 
From  Thomas  Court  to  Abbeyfeile,  would   cherish  their 

renown ! 

And  men  will  say  of  valor's  rise,  or  ancient  power's  decline, 
"  'T  will  never  soar,  it  never  shone,  as  did  the  Geraldine." 

The  Geraldines  !  the  Geraldines  !  and  are  there  any  fears 
Within  the  sons  of  conquerors  for  full  a  thousand  years  ? 
Can  treason  spring  from  out  a  soil  bedewed  with  martyrs' 

blood? 
Or  has  that  grown  a  purling  brook  which  long  rushed  down 

a  flood  ? 
By  Desmond  swept  with  sword  and  fire,  by  clan  and  keep 

laid  low, 

By  Silken  Thomas  and  his  kin,  by  sainted  Edward !  No! 
The  forms  of  centuries  rise  up,  and  in  the  Irish  line 
COMMAND  THEIR  SONS  TO  TAKE  THE  POST  THAT  FITS 

THE  GERALDINE! 

Thomas  Davis 


XCVI 


Am  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  aroon? 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Old  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon. 


206  Poetry  of  the  People 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Her  commands  to  fulfil 

Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 

Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  not  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you  — 

Stand  up  so  near  to  you  — 

Och  !  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 

Who  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin  door, 
And,  on  my  earthen  floor, 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 
Soggarth  aroon? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 
Soggarth  aroon?  — 

And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 

Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 


The  Girl  I  Left  behind  Me  207 

At  the  poor  christening, 
Soggarth  aroon? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon? 
And  when  my  heart  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Och  !  you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ; 
In  love  they  '11  never  shake, 
When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake, 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 

John  Banim 

XCVII 

C&e  <0irl  3f  left  be&ttrt  f&t 

The  dames  of  France  are  fond  and  free, 

And  Flemish  lips  are  willing, 
And  soft  the  maids  of  Italy, 

And  Spanish  eyes  are  thrilling ; 
Still,  though  I  bask  beneath  their  smile, 

Their  charms  fail  to  bind  me, 
And  my  heart  falls  back  to  Erin's  Isle, 

To  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 


2o8  Poetry  of  the  People 

For  she  's  as  fair  as  Shannon's  side, 

And  purer  than  its  water, 
But  she  refus'd  to  be  my  bride 

Though  many  a  year  I  sought  her ; 
Yet,  since  to  France  I  sail'd  away, 

Her  letters  oft  remind  me, 
That  I  promis'd  never  to  gainsay 

The  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

She  says,  "  My  own  dear  love,  come  home, 

My  friends  are  rich  and  many, 
Or  else,  abroad  with  you- 1  '11  roam, 

A  soldier  stout  as  any ; 
If  you  '11  not  come,  nor  let  me  go, 

I  '11  think  you  have  resign'd  me,"  — 
My  heart  nigh  broke  when  I  answer'd  "  No,' 

To  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

For  never  shall  my  true  love  brave 

A  life  of  war  and  toiling, 
And  never  as  a  skulking  slave 

I  '11  tread  my  native  soil  on ; 
But,  were  it  free  or  to  be  freed, 

The  battle's  close  would  find  me 
To  Ireland  bound,  nor  message  need 

From  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

Anonymous 


The  Meeting  of  the  Waters  209 

MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS   AND   BALLADS 

XCVIII 
ibarp  tfjat  once  tbnrajft  Cara'a 


The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls     . 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  : 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Thomas  Moore 


XCIX 

of  t&e 


There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 

As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet; 

Oh  !  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 

Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 


2io  Poetry  of  the  People 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'T  was  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill  — 
Oh,  no  1  —  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should 

cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace ! 

Thomas  Moore 


me,  if  all  t&oce  eirtJearttiff  pontiff 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will ; 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  may  be  known 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear ; 


The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  211 

No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god  when  he  sets 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 

Thomas  Moore 


CI 

Laet  L\occ  of  Shimmer 


'T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flow'r  of  her  kindred, 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I  '11  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  7  follow, 
When  friendships  decay, 

And  from  Love's  shining  circle 
The  gems  drop  away. 


Poetry  of  the  People 

When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh!  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 

Thomas  Moore 

CII 

Oft,  in  tljr  fitillp  nts&t 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me : 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I  've  seen  around  me  fall 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 


The  Coolun  213 

And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

Thomas  Moore 

cm 

C&e  Coolttti 

[FROM  THE  IRISH] 

Oh,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 

On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet, 
Oh,  my  love  she  is  and  my  colleen  oge, 

And  she  dwells  in  Balnagar ; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright 

From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 

In  Balnagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek ; 
Bright  beauty  dwells  for  ever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek. 
Oh,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 

Rise  up,  my  boy,  make  ready 

To  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride, 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hillside ; 


2 1 4  Poetry  of  the  People 

For  ever  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted 
In  faith,  truth,  and  wedlock  true. 

O  sweeter  her  voice  is  nine  times  over 
Than  organ  or  cuckoo  ! 

And  ever  since  my  childhood 

I  've  loved  the  dair  and  darling  child ; 
But  our  people  came  between  us, 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  denied. 
Oh,  my  woe  it  is  and  my  bitter  pain, 

And  I  weep  it  night  and  day 
That  the  colleen  bawn  of  my  early  love 

Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson 

CIV 

(Tbc  Erllfi  of  Canton 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection 
I  often  think  of  the  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells  — 
On  this  I  ponder,  where'er  I  wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine ; 
While  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 

But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine ; 


Kathleen  Mavourneen  215 

For  memory,  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  tolling  "  old  Adrian's  Mole  "  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame  ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly  :  — 
Oh,  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

There  's  a  bell  in  Moscow,  —  while  on  tower  and  kiosk,  O  ! 

In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air,  calls  men  to  prayer, 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets,  — 
Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  them, 
But  there  's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me  : 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 

The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

Francis  Mahony 

cv 


Kathleen  Mavourneen  !  the  gray  dawn  is  breaking, 
The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill, 

The  lark  from  her  light  wing  the  bright  dew  is  shaking  — 
Kathleen  Mavourneen  !  what,  slumbering  still  ? 


2 1 6  Poetry  of  the  People 

Oh !  hast  thou  forgotten  how  soon  we  must  sever* 
Oh !  hast  thou  forgotten  how  soon  we  must  part? 

It  may  be  for  years  and  it  may  be  for  ever, 

Oh !  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart  ? 

Kathleen  Mavourneen !  awake  from  thy  slumbers, 

The  blue  mountains  glow  in  the  sun's  golden  light ; 
Ah !  where  is  the  spell  that  once  hung  on  thy  numbers  ? 

Arise  in  thy  beauty,  thou  star  of  the  night ! 
Mavourneen  !  Mavourneen  !  my  sad  tears  are  falling, 

To  think  that  from  Erin  and  thee  I  must  part : 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  for  ever, 

Then  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart  ? 

Mrs.  Crawford 

CVI 
C&e  lament  of  tjje  %n6\)  (Emigrant 

I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary,  where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin',  long  ago,  when  first  you  were  my 

bride ; 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green,  and  the  lark  sang 

loud  and  high ; 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary,  and  the  love-light  in 

your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary,  the  day  is  bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear,  and  the  corn  is  green 

again : 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand,  and  your  breath 

warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words  you  nevermore  will 

speak. 


The  Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  217 

'T.is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane,  and  the  little  church 

stands  near,  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary ;  I  see  the  spire  from 

here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary,  and  my  step  might 

break  your  rest,  — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep,  with  your  baby  on 

your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary,  —  for  the  poor  make  no  new 

friends ; 

But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still  the  few  our  Father  sends ! 
And  you  were  all  /  had,  Mary  —  my  blessin'  and  my  pride  : 
There 's  no  thin'  left  to  care  for  now,  since  my  poor  Mary 

died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,   Mary,  that  still   kept 

hopin'  on,  • 

When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul,  and  my  arm's 

young  strength  was  gone  ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip,  and  the  kind  look  on 

your  brow,  — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same,  though  you  cannot  hear 

me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile  when  your  heart  was  fit 

to  break, — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawing  there,  and  you  hid  it 

for  my  sake ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word  when  your  heart  was  sad 

and  sore,  — 
Oh,  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary,  where  grief  can't 

reach  you  more! 


2 1 8  Poetry  of  the  People 

I  'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell,  my  Mary,  —  kind  and 

true ! 

But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling,  in  the  land  I  'm  goin'  to ; 
They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all,  and  the  sun  shines 

always  there, — 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland,  were  it  fifty  times  as  fair ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods  I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my 

eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again  to  the  place  where 

Mary  lies ; 

And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile  where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn,  when 

first  you  were  my  bride. 

Lady  Dufferin 

CVII 

SDear  LanU* 

When  comes  the  day  all  hearts  to  weigh, 

If  staunch  they  be,  or  vile, 
Shall  we  forget  the  sacred  debt 

We  owe  our  mother  isle  ? 
My  native  heath  is  brown  beneath, 

My  native  waters  blue, 
But  crimson  red  o'er  both  shall  spread, 

Ere  I  am  false  to  you, 

Dear  land  — 

Ere  I  am  false  to  you. 

When  I  behold  your  mountains  bold  — 

Your  noble  lakes  and  streams  — 
A  mingled  tide  of  grief  and  pride 

Within  my  bosom  teems. 


Dear  Land 

I  think  of  all  your  long,  dark  thrall  — 

Your  martyrs  brave  and  true  ; 
And  dash  apart  the  tears  that  start  — 

We  must  not  weep  for  you, 

Dear  land  — 

We  must  not  weep  for  you. 

My  grandsire  died  his  home  beside ; 

They  seized  and  hanged  him  there ; 
His  only  crime,  in  evil  time 

Your  hallowed  green  to  wear. 
Across  the  main  his  brothers  twain 

Were  sent  to  pine  and  rue ; 
And  still  they  turned,  with  hearts  that  burned, 

In  hopeless  love  to  you, 

Dear  land  — 

In  hopeless  love  to  you. 

My  boyish  ear  still  clung  to  hear 

Of  Erin's  pride  of  yore,  — 
Ere  Norman  foot  had  dared  pollute 

Her  independent  shore  — 
Of  chiefs,  long  dead,  who  rose  to  head 

Some  gallant  patriot  few ; 
Till  all  my  aim  on  earth  became 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you, 

Dear  land  — 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you. 

What  path  is  best  your  rights  to  wrest 

Let  other  heads  divine  ; 
By  work  or  word,  with  voice  or  sword, 

To  follow  them  be  mine. 


219 


220  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  breast  that  zeal  and  hatred  steel, 

No  terrors  can  subdue  ; 
If  death  should  come,  that  martyrdom 
Were  sweet,  endured  for  you, 

Dear  land  — 
Were  sweet,  endured  for  you. 

Sliabh  Cuilinn 


CVIII 
of  ^Dublin 


O  bay  of  Dublin  !  my  heart  you  're  troublin', 

Your  beauty  haunts  me  like  a  fevered  dream  ; 
Like  frozen  fountains  that  the  sun  sets  bubblin', 

My  heart's  blood  warms  when  I  but  hear  your  name. 
And  never  till  this  life  pulse  ceases, 

My  earliest  thought  you  '11  cease  to  be  ! 
O  there  's  no  one  here  knows  how  fair  that  place  is, 

And  no  one  cares  how  dear  it  is  to  me. 

Sweet  Wicklow  mountains  !  the  sunlight  sleeping 

On  your  green  banks  is  a  picture  rare  : 
You  crowd  around  me  like  young  girls  peeping, 

And  puzzling  me  to  say  which  is  most  fair  ! 
As  though  you  'd  see  your  own  sweet  faces 

Reflected  in  that  smooth  and  silver  sea. 
O  !  my  blessing  on  those  lovely  places, 

Though  no  one  cares  how  dear  they  are  to  me. 

How  often  when  at  work  I  'm  sitting, 
And  musing  sadly  on  the  days  of  yore, 


Killarney  221 

I  think  I  see  my  Katey  knitting, 

And  the  children  playing  round  the  cabin  door ; 
I  think  I  see  the  neighbors'  faces 

All  gathered  round,  their  long-lost  friend  to  see. 
O !  though  no  one  knows  how  fair  that  place  is, 

Heaven  knows  how  dear  my  poor  home  was  to  me. 

Lady  Ditfferin 

CIX 
feillarnep 

By  Killarney's  lakes  and  fells, 

Emerald  isles  and  winding  bays, 
Mountain  paths  and  woodland  dells, 

Memory  ever  fondly  strays. 
Bounteous  Nature  loves  all  lands ; 

Beauty  wanders  everywhere, 
Footprints  leaves  on  many  strands, 

But  her  home  is  surely  there ! 
Angels  fold  their  wings  and  rest 

In  the  Eden  of  the  West, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 

Ever  fair  Killarney. 

Inisfallen's  ruined  shrine 

May  suggest  a  passing  sigh, 
But  man's  faith  can  ne'er  decline, 

Such  God's  wonders  passing  by: 
Castle  Lough  and  Glenna  Bay, 

Mountain  Tore  and  Eagle's  Nest ; 
Still  at  Muckross  you  must  pray, 

Though  the  monks  are  now  at  rest ; 


222  Poetry  of  the  People 

Angels  wonder  not  that  man 

There  would  fain  prolong  life's  span ; 

Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Ever  fair  Killarney. 

No  place  else  can  charm  the  eye 

With  such  bright  and  varied  tints, 
Every  rock  that  you  pass  by 

Verdure  broiders  or  besprints, 
Virgin  there  the  green  grass  grows, 

Every  morn  Spring's  natal  day, 
Bright-hued  berries  daff  the  snows, 

Smiling  Winter's  frown  away. 
Angels  often  pausing  there, 

Doubt  if  Eden  were  more  fair ; 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 

Ever  fair  Killarney. 

Music  there  for  Echo  dwells, 

Makes  each  sound  a  harmony, 
Many-voiced  the  chorus  swells, 

Till  it  faints  in  ecstasy : 
With  the  charmful  tints  below 

Seems  the  heaven  above  to  vie, 
All  rich  colors  that  we  know 

Tinge  the  cloud-wreaths  in  the  sky; 
Wings  of  angels  so  might  shine, 

Glancing  back  soft  light  divine  — 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 

Ever  fair  Killarney. 

Edmund  O'Rourke 


Song  from  the  Backwoods  223 

CX 
§>onff  from  tl)c  -13nrltttioolJ6 

Deep  in  Canadian  woods  we  Ve  met, 

From  one  bright  island  flown! 
Great  is  the  land  we  tread,  but  yet 

Our  hearts  are  with  our  own. 
And  ere  we  leave  this  shanty  small, 

While  fades  the  autumn  day, 
We  '11  toast  old  Ireland  !  dear  old  Ireland! 

Ireland,  boys,  hurray! 

We  Ve  heard  her  faults  a  hundred  times, 

The  new  ones  and  the  old, 
In  songs  and  sermons,  rants  and  rhymes, 

Enlarged  some  fifty-fold. 
But  take  them  all,  the  great  and  small, 

And  this  we  've  got  to  say  :  — 
Here's  dear  old  Ireland!  good  old  Ireland! 

Ireland,  boys,  hurray! 

We  know  that  brave  and  good  men  tried 

To  snap  her  rusty  chain, 
That  patriots  suffered,  martyrs  died, 

And  all,  't  is  said,  in  vain ; 
But  no,  boys,  no!  a  glance  will  show 

How  far  they  Ve  won  their  way  — 
Here  's  good  old  Ireland  !  loved  old  Ireland  ! 

Ireland,  boys,  hurray ! 

We  Ve  seen  the  wedding  and  the  wake, 
The  patron  and  the  fair ; 


224  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  stuff  they  take,  the  fun  they  make, 
And  the  heads  they  break  down  there, 

With  a  loud  "  hurroo  "  and  a  "  pillalu," 
And  a  thundering  "  clear  the  way!  " 

Here's  gay  old  Ireland!  dear  old  Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurray! 

And  well  we  know  in  the  cool  grey  eves, 

When  the  hard  day's  work  is  o'er, 
How  soft  and  sweet  are  the  words  that  greet 

The  friends  who  meet  once  more  ; 
With  "Mary  machree!  "  and  "  My  Pat!  'tis  he!  " 

And  "  My  own  heart  night  and  day !  " 
Ah,  fond  old  Ireland !  dear  old  Ireland ! 

Ireland,  boys,  hurray ! 

And  happy  and  bright  are  the  groups  that  pass 

From  their  peaceful  homes,  for  miles 
O'er  fields,  and  roads,  and  hills,  to  Mass, 

When  Sunday  morning  smiles! 
And  deep  the  zeal  their  true  hearts  feel 

When  low  they  kneel  and  pray. 
O,  dear  old  Ireland !  blest  old  Ireland ! 

Ireland,  boys,  hurray! 

But  deep  in  Canadian  woods  we  Ve  met, 

And  we  never  may  see  again 
The  dear  old  isle  where  our  hearts  are  set, 

And  our  first  fond  hopes  remain ! 
But  come,  fill  up  another  cup, 

And  with  every  sup  let 's  say  — 
Here 's  loved  old  Ireland !  good  old  Ireland  ! 

Ireland,  boys,  hurray ! 

T.  D.  Sullivan 


To  God  and  Ireland  True  225 

CXI 
Co  <25oU  anB  Sfrelatrti  Crtte 


I  sit  beside  my  darling's  grave 

Who  in  the  prison  died, 
And  though  my  tears  fall  thick  and  fast 

I  think  of  him  with  pride  ; 
Ay,  softly  fall  my  tears  like  dew, 
For  one  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

"  I  love  my  God  o'er  all,"  he  said, 

"  And  then  I  love  my  land, 
And  next  I  love  my  Lily  sweet 

Who  pledged  me  her  white  hand  : 
To  each,  to  all,  I  'm  ever  true, 
To  God  —  to  Ireland,  and  to  you." 

No  tender  nurse  his  hard  bed  smoothed, 

Or  softly  raised  his  head  : 
He  fell  asleep  and  woke  in  heaven 

Ere  I  knew  he  was  dead  ; 
Yet  why  should  I  my  darling  rue  ? 
He  was  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

Oh,  't  is  a  glorious  memory  ; 

I  'm  prouder  than  a  queen 
To  sit  beside  my  hero's  grave 

And  think  on  what  has  been: 
And  O  my  darling,  I  am  true 
To  God  —  to  Ireland,  and  to  you  ! 

Ellen  CfLeary 


BOOK  FIFTH— POEMS  OF  AMERICA 
HISTORICAL  AND  PATRIOTIC 

cxn 
America 

My  country,  't  is  of  thee, 
Sweet  Land  of  Liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing  ; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  Freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free,  — 

Thy  name  I  love  ; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills, 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees, 

Sweet  Freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake  ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake ; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, — 

The  sound  prolong. 
227 


228  Poetry  of  the  People 


Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  Liberty, 

To  Thee  I  sing ; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  Freedom's  holy  light ; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 

S.  F.  Smith 


CXI  II 

Columbus 

1492 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said  :  "  Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo  !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Admiral,  speak,  what  shall  I  say?  " 

"  Why,  say,  '  Sail  on!  sail  on !  and  on! '" 

"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day ; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?  " 
"  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

'  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on! ' " 


Columbus  229 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said : 
"  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Admiral,  speak  and  say  "  — 

He  said  :  "  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on !  " 

They  sailed.    They  sailed.    Then  spake  the  mate : 

"  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite ! 
Brave  Admiral,  say  but  one  good  word : 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?  " 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword : 

"  Sail  on !  sail  on  !  sail  on !  and  on!  " 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.     Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights  !     And  then  a  speck  — 

A  light!  A  light !  A  light !  A  light! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled  ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson :  "  On  !  sail  on!" 

Joaquin  Miller 


230  Poetry  of  the  People 


CXIV 


Lantttng  of  t&e  plffrim  fathers  in  JQeto 

1620 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ; 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  waves'  foam  ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers  231 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  I 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found  — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Hcmans 


CXV 

Jatfjere 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  —  where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore  ; 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 


232  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone,  — 
As  an  angel's  wing  through  an  opening  cloud 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  pilgrim  exile,  —  sainted  name  ! 

The  hill  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head,  — 

But  the  Pilgrim  !  where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  summer 's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  drest, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  still  guards  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  Mayflower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 

John  Pierfoni 


The  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor  233 

CXVI 

in  Boston  patriot 


"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  !  "     The  psalm  to-day 

Still  rises  on  our  ears, 
Borne  from  the  hills  of  Boston  Bay 

Through  five  times  fifty  years, 
When  Winthrop's  fleet  from  Yarmouth  crept 

Out  to  the  open  main, 
And  through  the  widening  waters  swept, 
In  April  sun  and  rain. 

"  Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

The  leader  shouted,  "  pray  ;  " 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships 
As  faded  Yarmouth  Bay. 

They  passed  the  Scilly  Isles  that  day, 

And  May-days  came,  and  June, 
And  thrice  upon  the  ocean  lay 

The  full  orb  of  the  moon. 
And  as  that  day  on  Yarmouth  Bay, 

Ere  England  sunk  from  view, 
While  yet  the  rippling  Solent  lay 
In  April  skies  of  blue, 

"  Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

Each  morn  was  shouted,  "pray  ;" 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
As  first  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

Blew  warm  the  breeze  o'er  western  seas, 
Through  Maytime  morns,  and  June, 

Till  hailed  these  souls  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
Low  'neath  the  summer  moon  ; 


234  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  as  Cape  Ann  arose  to  view, 

And  Norman's  Woe  they  passed, 
The  wood-doves  came  the  white  mists  through, 
And  circled  round  each  mast. 

"  Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

Then  called  the  leader,  "  pray ; " 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
As  first  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

Above  the  sea  the  hill-tops  fair  — 

God's  towers  —  began  to  rise, 
And  odors  rare  breathe  through  the  air, 

Like  the  balms  of  Paradise. 
Through  burning  skies  the  ospreys  flew, 

And  near  the  pine-cooled  shores 
Danced  airy  boat  and  thin  canoe, 
To  flash  of  sunlit  oars. 

"  Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

The  leader  shouted,  "  pray !  " 
Then  prayer  arose,  and  all  the  ships 
Sailed  into  Boston  Bay. 

The  white  wings  folded,  anchors  down, 

The  sea-worn  fleet  in  line, 
Fair  rose  the  hills  where  Boston  town 

Should  rise  from  clouds  of  pine ; 
Fair  was  the  harbor,  summit- walled, 

And  placid  lay  the  sea. 
"  Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  the  leader  called ; 
"  Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  spake  he. 

"  Give  thanks  to  God  with  fervent  lips, 

Give  thanks  to  God  to-day," 
The  anthem  rose  from  all  the  ships 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 


The  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor  235 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord!  "     Primeval  woods 

First  heard  the  ancient  song, 
And  summer  hills  and  solitudes 

The  echoes  rolled  along. 
The  Red  Cross  flag  of  England  blew 

Above  the  fleet  that  day, 
While  ShawmutTs  triple  peaks  in  view 
In  amber  hazes  lay. 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day," 
The  anthem  rose  from  all  the  ships 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

The  Arabella  leads  the  song  — 
The  Mayflower  sings  below, 
That  erst  the  Pilgrims  bore  along 

The  Plymouth  reefs  of  snow. 
Oh!  never  be  that  psalm  forgot 

That  rose  o'er  Boston  Bay, 
When  Winthrop  sang,  and  Endicott, 
And  Saltonstall,  that  day  : 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day ; " 
And  praise  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
Like  prayers  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

That  psalm  our  fathers  sang  we  sing, 

That  psalm  of  peace  and  wars, 
While  o'er  our  heads  unfolds  its  wing 

The  flag  of  forty  stars. 
And  while  the  nation  finds  a  tongue 

For  nobler  gifts  to  pray, 
'Twill  ever  sing  the  song  they  sung 

That  first  Thanksgiving  Day: 


236  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day  ;  " 
So  rose  the  song  from  all  the  ships, 

Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

Our  fathers'  prayers  have  changed  to  psalms, 

As  David's  treasures  old 
Turned,  on  the  Temple's  giant  arms, 

To  lily-work  of  gold. 
Ho  !  vanished  ships  from  Yarmouth's  tide, 

Ho!  ships  of  Boston  Bay, 
Your  prayers  have  crossed  the  centuries  wide 
To  this  Thanksgiving  Day! 

We  pray  to  God  with  fervent  lips, 

We  praise  the  Lord  to-day, 
As  prayers  arose  from  Yarmouth  ships, 
But  psalms  from  Boston  Bay. 

Hezekiah  Butterworth 

CXVII 

CoiuorU  |)j>mn 

[COMMEMORATING  BATTLE  or  1775] 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 


Warren's  Address  237 

On  the  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone  ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


CXVIII 


Stand  !  the  ground  's  your  own,  my  braves! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What  's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel  ! 

Ask  it,  —  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  !  —  they  're  a-fire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it  !     From  the  vale 
On  they  come  !  —  and  will  ye  quail  ? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  ! 


238  Poetry  of  the  People 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 

Die  we  may,  —  and  die  we  must ; 

But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consign'd  so  well, 
As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyr'd  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell? 

John  Pierpont 

CXIX 

Battalion 
1776 

Spruce  Macaronis,  and  pretty  to  see, 

Tidy  and  dapper  and  gallant  were  we  ; 

Blooded,  fine  gentlemen,  proper  and  tall, 

Bold  in  a  fox-hunt  and  gay  at  a  ball ; 

Prancing  soldados  so  martial  and  bluff, 

Billets  for  bullets,  in  scarlet  and  buff, — 

But  our  cockades  were  clasped  with  a  mother's  low  prayer, 

And  the  sweethearts  that  braided  the  sword-knots  were  fair. 

There  was  grummer  of  drums  humming  hoarse  in  the  hills, 
And  the  bugle  sang  fanfaron  down  by  the  mills  ; 
By  Flatbush  the  bagpipes  were  droning  amain, 
And  keen  cracked  the  rifles  in  Martense's  lane ; 
For  the  Hessians  were  flecking  the  hedges  with  red, 
And  the  grenadiers'  tramp  marked  the  roll  of  the  dead. 

Three  to  one,  flank  and  rear,  flashed  the  files  of  St.  George, 
The  fierce  gleam  of  their  steel  as  the  glow  of  a  forge. 


The  Maryland  Battalion  239 

The  brutal  boom-boom  of  their  swart  cannoneers 

Was  sweet  music  compared  with  the  taunt  of  their  cheers — 

For  the  brunt  of  their  onset,  our  crippled  array, 

And  the  light  of  God's  leading  gone  out  in  the  fray ! 

Oh,  the  rout  on  the  left  and  the  tug  on  the  right ! 
The  mad  plunge  of  the  charge  and  the  wreck  of  the  flight ! 
When  the  cohorts  of  Grant  held  stout  Stirling  at  strain, 
And  the  mongrels  of  Hesse  went  tearing  the  slain ;' 
When  at  Freeke's  Mill  the  flumes  and  the  sluices  ran  red, 
And  the  dead  choked  the  dyke  and  the  marsh  choked  the 
dead! 

"  O  Stirling,  good  Stirling !  how  long  must  we  wait? 
Shall  the  shout  of  your  trumpet  unleash  us  too  late? 
Have  you  never  a  dash  for  brave  Mordecai  Gist, 
With  his  heart  in  his  throat,  and  his  blade  in  his  fist? 
Are  we  good  for  no  more  than  to  prance  in  a  ball, 
When  the  drums  beat  the  charge  and  the  clarions  call?" 

Tralara!     Tralara!     Now  praise  we  the  Lord 

For  the  clang  of  His  call  and  the  flash  of  His  sword! 

Tralara!     Tralara  !     Now  forward  to  die  ; 

For  the  banner,  hurrah  !  and  for  sweethearts,  good-bye  ! 

«'  Four  hundred  wild  lads  !"     Maybe  so.     I  '11  be  bound 

'T  will  be  easy  to  count  us,  face  up,  on  the  ground. 

If  we  hold  the  road  open,  tho'  Death  take  the  toll, 

We  '11  be  missed  on  parade  when  the  States  call  the  roll — 

When  the  flags  meet  in  peace  and  the  guns  are  at  rest, 

And  fair  Freedom  is  singing  Sweet  Home  in  the  West. 

John  W.  Palmer 


240  Poetry  of  the  People 

cxx 

"Columbia,  Columbia,  to  (Slorp 
1777 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 

The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies! 

Thy  genius  commands  thee  ;  with  rapture  behold, 

While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendors  unfold. 

Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  of  time, 

Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime ; 

Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy  name, 

Be  freedom,  and  science,  and  virtue  thy  fame. 

To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire ; 
Whelm  nations  in  blood,  and  wrap  cities  in  fire ; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend, 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm  :  for  a  world  be  thy  laws, 
Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause ; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis,  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the  skies. 

Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar, 
And  the  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams  of  her  star. 
New  bards,  and  new  sages,  unrival'd  shall  soar 
To  fame  unextinguish'd,  when  time  is  no  more ; 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed, 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind ; 
Here,  grateful  to  heaven,  with  transport  shall  bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of  spring. 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory  ascend» 
And  genius  and  beauty  in  harmony  blend ; 


Song  of  Marion's  Men  241 

The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desire, 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  the  fire ; 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners  refined, 
And  virtue's  bright  image,  instamp'd  on  the  mind, 
With  peace,  and  soft  rapture,  shall  teach  life  to  glow, 
And  light  up  a  smile  in  the  aspect  of  woe. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire,  and  the  ocean  obey ; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold, 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices  and  gold. 
As  the  day-spring  unbounded,  thy  splendor  shall  flow, 
And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall  bow : 
While  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurl'd, 
Hush  the  tumult  of  war,  and  give  peace  to  the  world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'erspread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively  stray'd  — 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired ; 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur ;  the  thunders  expired ; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flow'd  sweetly  along, 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung: 
"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies." 

Timothy  Dwight 

CXXI 

§>0nff  of  Barton's  fSlsn 

1780-1781 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 


242  Poetry  of  the  People 

Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree  ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near. ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout; 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 


Song  of  Marion's  Men  243 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads  — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain ; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  the  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs  ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band, 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever  from  our  shore. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


244  Poetry  of  the  People 

CXXII 

(Eutaiu  Spring 
1781 

At  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died : 
Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'erj 

Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide; 
How  many  heroes  are  no  more ! 

If  in  this  wreck  of  ruin  they 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  a  tear, 

O  smite  thy  gentle  breast,  and  say 
The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here ! 

Thou,  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 
If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 

Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign ; 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds  sunk  to  rest! 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn; 

You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear : 
'T  is  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear. 

They  saw  their  injured  country's  woe, 
The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field ; 

Then  rushed  to  meet  the  insulting  foe ; 
They  took  the  spear  —  but  left  the  shield 

Led  by  thy  conquering  standards,  Greene, 
The  Britons  they  compelled  to  fly : 

None  distant  viewed  the  fatal  plain, 
None  grieved  in  such  a  cause  to  die  — 

But,  like  the  Parthians  famed  of  old, 
Who,  flving,  still  their  arrows  threw, 


Carmen  Bellicosum  245 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold, 
Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

Now  rest  in  peace  our  patriot  band ; 

Though  far  from  nature's  limits  thrown, 
We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  Phoebus  of  their  own. 

Philip  Freneau 

CXXIII 
Carmen  38eIIicasttm 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 

Cannon-shot ; 

When  the  files 

Of  the  isles, 

From  the  smoky  night-encampment,  bore  the  banner  of  the 
rampant 

Unicorn ; 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer,  rolled  the  roll  of  the 
drummer 

Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires : 


246  Poetry  of  the  People 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore 
Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green-sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers, 

And  the  villainous  saltpetre 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears ; 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guards'  clangor 

On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher,  burned  the  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks! 

Then  the  bare-headed  Colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud; 

And  his  broadsword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet-loud ; 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder,  roared  the  iron  six-pounder, 
Hurling  death ! 

Guy  Humphrey  McMaster 


The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill  247 

CXXIV 
Cbe  Stoarti  of  Ctmfcer  Dill 

He  lay  upon  his  dying  bed ; 

His  eye  was  growing  dim, 
When  with  a  feeble  voice  he  called 

His  weeping  son  to  him : 
"  Weep  not,  my  boy !  "  the  vet'ran  said, 

"  I  bow  to  Heaven's  high  will, — 
But  quickly  from  yon  antlers  bring 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill." 

The  sword  was  brought,  the  soldier's  eye 

Lit  with  a  sudden  flame ; 
And  as  he  grasp'd  the  ancient  blade, 

He  murmured  WARREN'S  name  : 
Then  said,  "  My  boy,  I  leave  you  gold,  — 

But  what  is  richer  still, 
I  leave  you,  mark  me,  mark  me  now  — 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

"  'T  was  on  that  dread,  immortal  day, 

I  dared  the  Briton's  band, 
A  Captain  raised  this  blade  on  me  — 

I  tore  it  from  his  hand ; 
And  while  the  glorious  battle  raged, 

It  lightened  freedom's  will  — 
For,  boy,  the  God  of  freedom  blessed 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

"  Oh,  keep  the  sword !  " — his  accents  broke — 

A  smile  —  and  he  was  dead  — 
But  his  wrinkled  hand  still  grasped  the  blade 

Upon  that  dying  bed. 


248  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  son  remains;  the  sword  remains  — 

Its  glory  growing  still  — 
And  twenty  millions  bless  the  sire, 

And  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

William  Ross  Wallace 


cxxv 

'c  &tattte 


The  quarry  whence  thy  form  majestic  sprung 

Has  peopled  earth  with  grace, 
Heroes  and  gods  that  elder  bards  have  sung, 

A  bright  and  peerless  race  ; 
But  from  its  sleeping  veins  ne'er  rose  before 

A  shape  of  loftier  name 
Than  his,  who  Glory's  wreath  with  meekness  wore, 

The  noblest  son  of  Fame. 
Sheathed  is  the  sword  that  Passion  never  stained  ; 

His  gaze  around  is  cast, 
As  if  the  joys  of  Freedom,  newly  gained, 

Before  his  vision  passed  ; 
As  if  a  nation's  shout  of  love  and  pride 

With  music  filled  the  air, 
And  his  calm  soul  was  lifted  on  the  tide 

Of  deep  and  grateful  prayer  ; 
As  if  the  crystal  mirror  of  his  life 

To  fancy  sweetly  came, 
With  scenes  of  patient  toil  and  noble  strife, 

Undimmed  by  doubt  or  shame  ; 
As  if  the  lofty  purpose  of  his  soul 

Expression  would  betray,  — 


Hail,  Columbia  249 

The  high  resolve  Ambition  to  control, 

And  thrust  her  crown  away  ! 
O,  it  was  well  in  marble  firm  and  white 

To  carve  our  hero's  form, 
Whose  angel  guidance  was  our  strength  in  fight, 

Our  star  amid  the  storm  ! 
Whose  matchless  truth  has  made  his  name  divine, 

And  human  freedom  sure, 
His  country  great,  his  tomb  earth's  dearest  shrine, 

While  man  and  time  endure ! 
And  it  is  well  to  place  his  image  there 

Upon  the  soil  he  blest : 
Let  meaner  spirits,  who  its  councils  share, 

Revere  that  silent  guest ! 
Let  us  go  up  with  high  and  sacred  love 

To  look  on  his  pure  brow, 
And  as,  with  solemn  grace,  he  points  above, 

Renew  the  patriot's  vow ! 

Henry  Theodore  Tuckerman 


CXXVI 

|)atl,  Columbia 
1798 

Hail,  Columbia !  happy  land  ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes!  heaven-born  band! 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  yalpr  won. 


250  Poetry  of  the  People 

Let  independence  be  your  boast, 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 


Chorus 

Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  Liberty; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  patriots !  rise  once  more  : 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore : 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
While  offering  peace,  sincere  and  just, 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail.  —  Cho. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  fame ! 

Let  WASHINGTON'S  great  name 

Ring  thro'  the  world  with  loud  applause, 

Ring  thro'  the  world  with  loud  applause ; 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 

With  equal  skill,  and  godlike  pow'r, 

He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 

Of  horrid  war,  or  guides  with  ease 

The  happier  time  of  honest  peace.  —  Cho. 


The  "  Constitution's  "  Last  Fight  251 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands ! 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat ; 
But  armed  in  virtue,  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
When  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  Liberty. —  Cho. 

Joseph  Hopkinson 


CXXVII 

"  Cimattttttion'a  "  Laet 
1815 

A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  — 
Constitution, where  ye  bound  for? 

Wherever,  my  lad,  there  's  fight  to  be  had 
Acrost  the  Western  ocean. 

Our  captain  was  married  in  Boston  town 

And  sailed  next  day  to  sea ; 
For  all  must  go  when  the  State  says  so ; 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  sailed  we. 

"  Now,  what  shall  I  bring  for  a  bridal  gift 
When  my  home-bound  pennant  flies  ? 

The  rarest  that  be  on  land  or  sea 
It  shall  be  my  lady's  prize." 


2  5  2  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  There  's  never  a  prize  on  sea  or  land 

Could  bring  such  joy  to  me 
As  my  true  love  sound  and  homeward  bound 

With  a  king's  ship  under  his  lee." 

The  Western  ocean  is  wide  and  deep, 

And  wild  its  tempests  blow, 
But  bravely  rides  Old  Ironsides, 

A-cruising  to  and  fro. 

We  cruised  to  the  east  and  we  cruised  to  north, 

And  southing  far  went  we, 
And  at  last  off  Cape  de  Verd  we  raised 

Two  frigates  sailing  free. 

Oh,  God  made  man,  and  man  made  ships, 

But  God  makes  very  few 
Like  him  who  sailed  our  ship  that  day, 

And  fought  her,  one  to  two. 

He  gained  the  weather  gauge  of  both, 

He  held  them  both  a-lee  ; 
And  gun  for  gun,  till  set  of  sun, 
.  He  spoke  them  fair  and  free ; 

Till  the  night  fog  fell  on  spar  and  sail, 

And  ship,  and  sea,  and  shore, 
And  our  only  aim  was  the  bursting  flame 

And  the  hidden  cannon's  roar. 

Then  a  long  rift  in  the  mist  showed  up 

The  stout  Cyane,  close-hauled 
To  swing  in  our  wake  and  our  quarter  rake, 

And  a  boasting  Briton  bawled : 


The  "  Constitution's  "  Last  Fight  253 

"  Starboard  and  larboard,  we  've  got  him  fast 
Where  his  heels  won't  take  him  through ; 

Let  him  luff  or  wear,  he  '11  find  us  there,  — 
Ho,  Yankee,  which  will  you  do?  " 

We  did  not  luff  and  we  did  not  wear, 

But  braced  our  topsails  back, 
Till  the  sternway  drew  us  fair  and  true 

Broadsides  athwart  her  track. 

Athwart  her  track  and  across  her  bows 

We  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 
And  out  of  the  fight  and  into  the  night 

Drifted  the  beaten  craft 

The  slow  Levant  came  up  too  late ; 

No  need  had  we  to  stir ; 
Her  decks  we  swept  with  fire,  and  kept 

The  flies  from  troubling  her. 

We  raked  her  again,  and  her  flag  came  down,  — 

The  haughtiest  flag  that  floats,  — 
And  the  lime-juice  dogs  lay  there  like  logs, 

With  never  a  bark  in  their  throats. 

With  never  a  bark  and  never  a  bite, 

But  only  an  oath  to  break, 
As  we  squared  away  for  Praya  Bay 

With  our  prizes  in  our  wake. 

Parole  they  gave  and  parole  they  broke, 

What  matters  the  cowardly  cheat, 
If  the  captain's  bride  was  satisfied 

With  the  one  prize  laid  at  her  feet  ? 


254  Poetry  of  the  People 

A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  — 

Constitution,  where  ye  bound  for? 
Wherever  the  British  prizes  be, 
Though  it  's  one  to  two,  or  one  to  three,  — 
Old  Ironsides  means  victory, 

Acrost  the  Western  ocean. 

James  Jeffrey  Reche 

CXXVIII 


Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high,    . 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar  ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

O,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 

Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 


The  Warship  of  1812  255 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


CXXIX 
Q&lavsbtj)  of  1812 

She  was  no  armored  cruiser  of  twice  six  thousand  tons, 
With  the  thirty  foot  of  metal  that  make  your  modern  guns ; 
She  did  n't  have  a  free  board  of  thirty  foot  in  clear, 
An'  she  did  n't  need  a  million  repairin'  fund  each  year. 
She  had  no  rackin'  engines  to  ramp  an'  stamp  an'  strain, 
To  work  her  steel-clad  turrets  an'  break  her  hull  in  twain ; 
She  did  not  have  electric  lights,  —  the  battle-lantern's  glare 
Was  all  the  light  the  'tween  decks  had,  —  an'  God's  own 
good  fresh  air. 

She  had  no  gapin'  air-flumes  to  throw  us  down  our  breath, 
An'  we  did  n't  batten  hatches  to  smother  men  to  death ; 
She  did  n't  have  five  hundred  smiths  —  two  hundred  men 

would  do  — 

In  the  old-time  Yankee  frigate  for  an  old-time  Yankee  crew, 
An'  a  fightin'  Yankee  captain,  with  his  old-time  Yankee 

clothes, 

A-cursin'  Yankee  sailors  with  his  old-time  Yankee  oaths. 
She  was  built  of  Yankee  timber  and  manned  by  Yankee 

men, 
An'  fought  by  Yankee  sailors  —  Lord  send  their  like  again  \ 


256  Poetry  of  the  People 

With  the  wind  abaft  the  quarter  and  the  sea  foam  flyin'  free, 
An'  every  tack  and  sheet  housed  taut  and  braces  eased  to  lee, 
You  could  hear  the  deep  sea  thunder  from  the  knightheads 

where  it  broke, 
As  she  trailed  her  lee  guns  under  a  blindin'  whirl  o'  smoke. 

She  did  n't  run  at  twenty  knots,  —  she  was  n't  built  to  run, — 
An'  we  did  n't  need  a  half  a  watch  to  handle  every  gun. 
Our  captain  did  n't  fight  his  ship  from  a  little  pen  o'  steel ; 
He  fought  her  from  his  quarter-deck,  with  two  hands  at  the 

wheel, 
An'  we  fought  in  Yankee  fashion,  half  naked,  —  stripped  to 

board,  — 
An'  when  they  hauled  their  red  flag  down  we  praised  the 

Yankee  Lord. 

We  fought  like  Yankee  sailors,  an'  we  '11  do  it,  too,  again ; 
You  've   changed   the   ships   an'    methods,   but  you   can't 

change  Yankee  men! 

Philadelphia  Record 


cxxx 

Banner 

1814 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so   proudly   we    hailed    at   the    twilight's    last 

gleaming  ? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  thro'  the  clouds 

of  the  fight, 

O'er    the    ramparts   we    watched    were    so   gallantly 
streaming  ? 


The  Star-Spangled  Banner  257 

And  the  rockets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  thro'  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there ; 

Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

Chorus 

Oh,  say,  does  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 


On  that  shore  dimly  seen  thro'  the  mists  of  the  deep, 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  in  the  stream ; 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner ;  oh,  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

—  Cho. 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 

Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  they  'd  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom, of  the  grave ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

—  Cho. 

Oh !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home,  and  the  war's  desolation ! 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heav'n-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation. 


258  Poetry  of  the  People 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust  !  " 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

—  Cho. 
Francis  Scott  Key 

CXXXI 

Columbia,  tjje  ®on  of  t&e  ©cean 


O  Columbia,  the  gem  of  the  ocean, 

The  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 
The  shrine  of  each  patriot's  devotion, 

A  world  offers  homage  to  thee  ! 
Thy  mandates  make  heroes  assemble, 

When  Liberty's  form  stands  in  view  ; 
Thy  banners  make  Tyranny  tremble, 

When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue. 

Chorus 

When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue, 
When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue, 
Thy  banners  make  Tyranny  tremble, 
When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue. 

When  war  winged  its  wide  desolation 

And  threatened  the  land  to  deform, 
The  ark  then  of  Freedom's  foundation, 

Columbia,  rode  safe  thro'  the  storm  ; 
With  her  garlands  of  vict'ry  around  her, 

When  so  proudly  she  bore  her  brave  crew, 
With  her  flag  proudly  floating  before  her, 

The  boast  of  the  red,  white,  and  blue.  —  Cho. 


The  American  Flag  259 

The  wine  cup,  the  wine  cup  bring  hither, 

And  fill  you  it  true  to  the  brim ; 
May  the  wreaths  they  have  won  never  wither, 

Nor  the  star  of  their  glory  grow  dim ! 
May  the  service  united  ne'er  sever, 

But  they  to  their  colors  prove  true ! 
The  Army  and  Navy  forever ! 

Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white,  and  blue  !  —  Cho. 

D.  T.  Shaw 


CXXXII 

American  jFIaj 

1819 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 
When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 


2  6  o  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet^ 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 


God  Bless  our  Native  Land  261 

Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet  ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake 


CXXXIII 

our  JRatitoc  lanU 


God  bless  our  native  land  ! 
Firm  may  she  ever  stand, 

Through  storm  and  night: 
When  the  wild  tempests  rave, 
Ruler  of  wind  and  wave, 
Do  Thou  our  country  save 

By  Thy  great  might  ! 

For  her  our  prayers  shall  rise 
To  God,  above  the  skies  ; 

On  Him  we  wait  : 
Thou  who  art  ever  nigh, 
Guarding  with  watchful  eye, 
To  Thee  aloud  we  cry, 

"  God  save  the  State  !  " 

C.  T.  Brooks  (1834)  and/.  S.  Dwight  (1844) 


262  Poetry  of  the  People 


CXXXIV 

C&e  Defence  of  t&e 

1840 

Santa  Ana  came  storming,  as  a  storm  might  come  ; 

There  was  rumble  of  cannon  ;  there  was  rattle  of  blade; 
There  was  cavalry,  infantry,  bugle,  and  drum,  — 

Full  seven  thousand,  in  pomp  and  parade, 
The  chivalry,  flower  of  Mexico  ; 
And  a  gaunt  two  hundred  in  the  Alamo  ! 

And  thirty  lay  sick,  and  some  were  shot  through  ; 

For  the  siege  had  been  bitter,  and  bloody,  and  long. 
"  Surrender,  or  die  !  "  —  "  Men,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

And  Travis,  great  Travis,  drew  sword,  quick  and  strong  ; 
Drew  a  line  at  his  feet  ..."  Will  you  come  ?  Will  you  go  ? 
I  die  with  my  wounded,  in  the  Alamo." 

Then  Bowie  gasped,  "  Lead  me  over  that  line  !  " 

Then  Crockett,  one  hand  to  the  sick,  one  hand  to  his  gun, 

Crossed  with  him  ;  then  never  a  word  or  a  sign 
Till  all,  sick  or  well,  all,  all  save  but  one, 

One  man.     Then  a  woman  stepped,  praying,  and  slow 

Across  ;  to  die  at  her  post  in  the  Alamo. 

Then  that  one  coward  fled,  in  the  night,  in  that  night 

When  all  men  silently  prayed  and  thought 
Of  home  ;  of  to-morrow  ;  of  God  and  the  right, 

Till  dawn:  and  with  dawn  came  Travis's  cannon  shot, 
In  answer  to  insolent  Mexico, 
From  the  old  bell-tower  of  the  Alamo. 


The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  263 

Then  came  Santa  Ana ;  a  crescent  of  flame  ! 

Then  the  red  "  escalade  "  ;  then  the  fight  hand  to  hand  ; 
Such  an  unequal  fight  as  never  had  name 

Since  the  Persian  hordes  butchered  that  doomed  Spartan 

band. 

All  day,  —  all  day  and  all  night,  and  the  morning  ?  so  slow 
Through  the  battle  smoke  mantling  the  Alamo. 

Now  silence  !     Such  silence  !     Two  thousand  lay  dead 
In  a  crescent  outside  !     And  within  ?     Not  a  breath 

Save  the  gasp  of  a  woman,  with  gory  gashed  head, 
All  alone,  all  alone  there,  waiting  for  death; 

And  she  but  a  nurse.     Yet  when  shall  we  know 

Another  like  this  of  the  Alamo  ? 

Shout  "  Victory,  victory,  victory  ho  !  " 

I  say  'tis  not  always  to  the  hosts  that  win; 

I  say  that  the  victory,  high  or  low, 

Is  given  the  hero  who  grapples  with  sin, 

Or  legion  or  single  ;  just  asking  to  know 

When  duty  fronts  death  in  his  Alamo. 

Joaquin  Miller 


CXXXV 

33toottac  of  t&e  SDeafc 

1847 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 


Poetry  of  the  People 

On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 
Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 

And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms  ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 
That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 


The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  265 

Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  Death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain ; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide ; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  firstborn  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 


266  Poetry  of  the  People 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  : 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield  ; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead  ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave  ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 


Theodort  Q'ffara 


John  Brown's  Body  267 

CXXXVI 
3T0|)n  Proton's  330Up 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on  ! 

Chorus 

Glory  !  Glory  Hallelujah  ! 
Glory!  Glory  Hallelujah ! 
Glory !  Glory  Hallelujah  ! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord  ! 

He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord ! 

He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord ! 

His  soul  is  marching  on.  —  Cho. 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back. 
His  soul  is  marching  on.  —  Cho. 

His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 

And  they  '11  go  marching  on.  —  Cho. 

They  '11  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple  tree, 
As  they  go  marching  on.  —  Cho. 

Now  for  the  Union  let 's  give  three  rousing  cheers, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 

Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  Hurrah! 

Anonymous 


268  Poetry  of  the  People 

CXXXVII 
38attlc--|)pran  of  t&e  Etpttblit 

1861 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord : 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath 

are  stored ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift 

sword: 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps ; 
I  have  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace 

shall  deal; 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  His  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 

retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat : 
Oh !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him,  be  jubilant,  my 

feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 


The  Battle-  Cry  of  Freedom  269 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe 

CXXXVIII 

C&e  38attIe=Crj>  of  JreeUom 

Yes,  we  '11  rally  'round  the  flag,  boys,  we  '11  rally  once  again, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
We  will  rally  from  the  hillside,  we  '11  gather  from  the  plain, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

Chorus 
The  Union  forever,  hurrah,  boys,  hurrah ! 

Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with  the  star, 
While  we  rally  'round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  again, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  are  springing  to  the  call  of  our  brothers  gone  before, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
And  we  '11  fill  the  vacant  ranks  with  a  million  freemen  more, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.  —  Cho. 

We  will  welcome  to  our  numbers  the  loyal,  true,  and  brave, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
And  altho'  they  may  be  poor,  not  a  man  shall  be  a  slave, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.  —  Cho. 

So  we  're  springing  to  the  call  from  the  East  and  from  the 

West, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 

And  we  '11  hurl  the  rebel  crew  from  the  land  we  love  the  best, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.  —  Cho. 

George  F.  Root 


270  Poetry  of  the  People 

CXXXIX 

€!)*  HetetUe 

Hark!  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum ; 
Lo !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick-alarming  drum, 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come ! 
Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick-alarming  drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel : 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come ! 

Death   shall  reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said   the  solemn- 
sounding  drum. 

"  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee-answeriag 
drum. 

"  What  if,  mid  the  cannon's  thunder, 
Whistling  shot,  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 
.     Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?  " 


The  "Cumberland"  271 

But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

Better   there   in   death   united,  than  in  life  a  recreant  — 
Come ! " 

Thus  they  answered,  —  hoping,  fearing, 
Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some,  — 
Till  a  trumpet-voice,  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come  ! " 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo !  was  dumb  ; 

For  the  great  heart  of   the  nation,  throbbing,  answered, 
"  Lord,  we  come !  " 

Bret  Harte 


CXL 

Che  "  CumierlanU  " 

1862 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast  , 

From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak, 


272  Poetry  of  the  People 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 
Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 

"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield ! :; 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  I 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 


Kearney  at  Seven  Pines  273 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream ; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 

Henry  Wads-worth  Longfellow 


CXLI 

Ixrarnrp  at  i&etoen  JJtnrs 
1862 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 

That  story  of  Kearney  who  knew  not  to  yield ! 
'T  was  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and  Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose  highest, 

Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak  and 

pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest,  — 

No  charge  like  Phil  Kearney's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 

Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our  ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound. 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder,  — 

His  sword  waved  us  on,  and  we  answered  the  sign ; 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the  louder ; 

"  There  's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole  line  I  " 


274  Poetry  of  the  People 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed  !     How  we  saw  his  blade 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  — through  the  clearing  or  pine? 
"  Oh,  anywhere  !     Forward  !     'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel ; 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  ! " 

Oh,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride  ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still  —  in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's 

sign  — 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward  !  along  the  whole  line. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 


CXLII 

38atiara  Jrietcfjie 


Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


Barbara  Frietchie  275 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 


276  Poetry  of  the  People 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face,  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word; 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 


Vicksburg  277 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewatl's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


CXLIII 


1862-1863 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  the  ramparts  of  the  dead  !  " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 
The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim  ; 

And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 
O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn, 


278  Poetry  of  the  People 

Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts  ; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gambolled, 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed; 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice-mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster, 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 
Those  death-shafts  warned  aside, 


Keenan's  Charge  279 

And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide  ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode,  with  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 

Paul  Hamilton  Haynt 

CXLIV 


1863 
i 

The  sun  had  set  ; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet  : 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 

On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 

Where  Stonewall's  corps,  like  the  beast  of  prey, 

Tore  through,  with  angry  tusk. 

"They  Ve  trapped  us,  boys  !  " 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate  ; 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke  : 

Broke  and  fled. 

No  one  stayed  —  but  the  dead! 

With  curses,  shrieks,  and  cries, 

Horses  and  wagons  and  men 

Tumbled  back  through  the  shuddering  glen, 

And  above  us  the  fading  skies. 

From  Dreams  and  Days,  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


280  Poetry  of  the  People 

There  's  one  hope  still,  — 
Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill ! 
"  Battery,  wheel !  "  (mid  the  roar) 
"  Pass  pieces  ;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot!"     In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "  Trot !  "  —  and  no  more. 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged, 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 

But  suddenly  rode  a  form 

Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm, 

With  a  stern,  commanding  shout : 

"  Align  those  guns  !  " 

(We  knew  it  was  Pleasonton's.) 

The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey, 

And  worked  with  a  will  at  his  word : 

And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had  heard. 

But  ah  the  dread  delay! 

"  To  wait  is  crime ; 
O  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time  !  " 
The  General  looked  around. 
There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 
With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone, 
Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"  Major,  your  men  ?" 

"  Are  soldiers,  General."     "  Then 

Charge,  Major !     Do  your  best : 

Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed,  —  else  the  army  is  lost 

You  die  to  save  the  rest ! " 


Keenan' 3  Charge  281 

ii 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  into  Pleasonton's  eyes 
For  an  instant, — clear,  and  cool,  and  still ; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said :  "  I  will." 

"  Cavalry,  charge  ! "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 

Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath,  — 

Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sashed  ; 

Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 

In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow ; 

And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 

Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ringed  with  flame ; 

Rode  in  and  sabred  and  shot  —  and  fell ; 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 

'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 

Line  after  line — ay,  whole  platoons, 

Struck  dead  in  their  saddles  — -  of  brave  dragoons 


282  Poetry  of  the  People 

By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn ; 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 
So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ?  —  'T  is  a  death-salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place  ;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain :  the  army  was  saved ! 

Over  them  now  —  year  following  year  — 

Over  their  graves  the  pine-cones  fall, 

And  the  whippoorwill  chants  his  spectre-call ; 

But  they  stir  not  again  ;  they  raise  no  cheer : 

They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall  never  cease, 

Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 

The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 

That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 

George  Parsons  Lathrop 


CXLV 


1863 

Wave,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  soldiers  of  the 

North, 
And  from  the  fields  your  arms  have  won  to-day  go  proudly 

forth  ! 
For  now,  O  comrades  dear  and  leal  —  from  whom  no  ills 

could  part, 
Through  the  long  years  of  hopes  and  fears,  the  nation's 

constant  heart  — 


Gettysburg  283 

Men  who  have  driven  so  oft  the  foe,  so  oft  have  striven  in 

vain, 

Yet  ever  in  the  perilous  hour  have  crossed  his  path  again, — 
At  last  we  have  our  heart's  desire,  from  them  we  met  have 

wrung 

A  victory  that  round  the  world  shall  long  be  told  and  sung! 
It  was  the  memory  of  the  past  that  bore  us  through  the  fray, 
That  gave  the  grand  old  army  strength  to  conquer  on  this 

day! 

Oh,  now  forget  how  dark  and  red  Virginia's  rivers  flow, 
The  Rappahannock's  tangled  wilds,  the  glory  and  the  woe  ; 
The  fever-hung  encampments,  where  our  dying  knew  full 

sore 
How  sweet  the  north-wind  to  the  cheek  it  soon  shall  cool  no 

more ; 
The  fields  we  fought,  and  gained,  and  lost;  the  lowland  sun 

and  rain 
That  wasted  us,  that  bleached  the  bones  of  our  unburied 

slain ! 

There  was  no  lack  of  foes  to  meet,  of  deaths  to  die  no  lack, 
And  all  the  hawks  of  heaven  learned  to  follow  on  our  track ; 
But  henceforth,  hovering  southward,  their  flight  shall  mark 

afar 
The  paths  of  yon  retreating  host  that  shun  the  northern 

star. 

At  night  before  the  closing  fray,  when  all  the  front  was  still, 

We  lay  in  bivouac  along  the  cannon-crested  hill. 

Ours  was  the  dauntless  Second  Corps ;  and  many  a  soldier 

knew 
How  sped  the  fight,  and  sternly  thought  of  what  was  yet 

to  do. 


284  Poetry  of  the  People 

Guarding  the  centre  there,  we  lay,  and  talked  with  bated 
breath 

Of  Buford's  stand  beyond  the  town,  of  gallant  Reynolds' 
death, 

Of  cruel  retreats  through  pent-up  streets  by  murderous 
volleys  swept,  — 

How  well  the  Stone,  the  Iron,  brigades  their  bloody  out- 
posts kept: 

'Twas  for  the  Union,  for  the  Flag,  they  perished,  heroes 
all, 

And  we  swore  to  conquer  in  the  end,  or  even  like  them 
to  fall. 

And  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  of  that  grim  day 

just  done, 

The  fight  by  Round  Top's  craggy  spur  —  of  all  the  dead- 
liest one ; 
It  saved  the  left:  but  on  the  right  they  pressed  us  back  too 

well, 
And  like  a  field  in  Spring  the  ground  was  ploughed  with 

shot  and  shell. 
There  was  the  ancient  graveyard,  its  hummocks  crushed 

and  red, 
And  there,  between  them,  side  by  side,  the  wounded  and 

the  dead : 
The   mangled   corpses  fallen   above  —  the   peaceful   dead 

below, 
Laid  in  their  graves,   to  slumber  here,  a  score  of  years 

ago; 
It  seemed  their  waking,  wandering  shades  were  asking  of 

our  slain, 
What  brought  such  hideous  tumult  now  where  they  so  still 

had  lain ! 


Gettysburg  285 

Bright  rose  the  sun  of  Gettysburg  that  morrow  morning  tide, 
And  call  of  trump  and  roll  of  drum  from  height  to  height 

replied. 

Hark !  from  the  east  already  goes  up  the  rattling  din ; 
The  Twelfth  Corps,  winning  back  their  ground,  right  well 

the  day  begin ! 
They  whirl  fierce  Ewell  from  their  front !     Now  we  of  the 

Second  pray, 
As  right  and  left  the  brunt  have  borne,  the  centre  might 

to-day. 

But  all  was  still  from  hill  to  hill  for  many  a  breathless  hour, 
While  for  the  coming  battle-shock    Lee   gathered  in  his 

power; 
And  back  and  forth  our  leaders  rode,  who  knew  not  rest  or 

fear, 
And  along  the  lines,  where'er  they  came,  went  up  the  ringing 

cheer. 

'T  was  past  the  hour  of  nooning;  the  Summer  skies  were 

blue ; 

Behind  the  covering  timber  the  foe  was  hid  from  view ; 
So  fair  and  sweet  with  waving  wheat  the  pleasant  valley  lay, 
It  brought  to  mind  our  Northern  homes  and  meadows  far 

away ; 
When  the  whole  western  ridge  at  once  was  fringed  with  fire 

and  smoke, 
Against  our  lines  from  seven  score  guns  the  dreadful  tempest 

broke ! 

Then  loud  our  batteries  answer,  and  far  along  the  crest, 
And  to  and  fro  the  roaring  bolts  are  driven  east  and  west ; 
Heavy  and  dark  around  us  glooms  the  stifling  sulphur  cloud. 
And  the  cries  of  mangled  men  and  horse  go  up  beneath  its 

shroud. 


286  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  guns  are  still :  the  end  is  nigh  :  we  grasp  our  arms  anew 
Oh,  now  let  every  heart  be  stanch  and  every  aim  be  true ! 
For  look  !  from  yonder  wood  that  skirts  the  valley's  further 

marge, 

The  flower  of  all  the  Southern  host  move  to  the  final  charge. 
By  heaven  !  it  is  a  fearful  sight  to  see  their  double  rank 
Come  with  a  hundred  battle-flags  —  a  mile  from  flank  to 

flank! 
Tramping  the  grain  to  earth,  they  come,  ten  thousand  men 

abreast ; 
Their  standards  wave — their  hearts  are  brave  —  they  hasten 

not,  nor  rest, 
But  close  the  gaps  our  cannon  make,  and  onward  press, 

and  nigher, 
And,  yelling  at  our  very  front,  again  pour  in  their  fire. 

Now  burst  our  sheeted  lightnings  forth,  now  all  our  wrath 

has  vent ! 
They  die,  they  wither ;  through  and  through  their  wavering 

lines  are  rent. 
But  these  are  gallant,  desperate  men,  of  our  own  race  and 

land, 
Who  charge  anew,  and  welcome  death,  and  fight  us  hand 

to  hand : 

Vain,  vain !  give  way,  as  well  ye  may — the  crimson  die  is  cast! 
Their  bravest  leaders  bite  the  dust,  their  strength  is  failing 

fast; 
They  yield,  they  turn,  they  fly  the  field :  we  smite  them  as 

they  run ; 
Their  arms,  their  colors,  are  our  spoil ;  the  furious  fight  is 

done! 

Across  the  plain  we  follow  far  and  backward  push  the  fray : 
Cheer!  cheer!  the  grand  old  Army  at  last  has  won  the  day  I 


Gettysburg  287 

Hurrah !  the  day  has  won  the  cause !     No  gray-clad  host 

henceforth 
Shall  come  with  fire  and  sword  to  tread  the  highways  of  the 

North ! 

'T  was  such  a  flood  as  when  ye  see,  along  the  Atlantic  shore, 
The  great  Spring-tide  roll  grandly  in  with  swelling  surge 

and  roar: 

It  seems  no  wall  can  stay  its  leap  or  balk  its  wild  desire 
Beyond  the  bound  that  Heaven  hath  fixed  to  higher  mount, 

and  higher ; 

But  now,  when  whitest  lifts  its  crest,  most  loud  its  billows  call, 
Touched  by  the  Power  that  led  them  on,  they  fall,  and  fall, 

and  fall. 

Even  thus,  unsta'yed  upon  his  course,  to  Gettysburg  the  foe 
His  legions  led,  and  fought,  and  fled,  and  might  no  further  go. 

Full  many  a  dark-eyed  Southern  girl  shall  weep  her  lover 

dead; 
But  with  a  price  the  fight  was  ours  —  we  too  have  tears  to 

shed! 
The  bells  that  peal  our  triumph  forth  anon  shall  toll  the 

brave, 
Above  whose  heads  the  cross  must  stand,  the  hill-side  grasses 

wave ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  the  trampled  grass  shall  thrive  another  year, 
The  blossoms  on  the  apple-boughs  with  each  new  Spring 

appear, 
But  when  our  patriot-soldiers  fall,  Earth  gives  them  up  to 

God; 
Though  their  souls  rise  in  clearer  skies,  their  forms  are  as 

the  sod ; 

Only  their  names  and  deeds  are  ours  —  but,  for  a  century  yet, 
The  dead  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  the  land  shall  not  forget. 


288  Poetry  of  the  People 

God  send  us  peace !  and  where  for  aye  the  loved  and  lost 

recline 
Let  fall,  O  South,  your  leaves  of  palm — O  North,  your 

sprigs  of  pine  !  / 

But  when,  with  every  ripened  year,  we  keep  the  harvest 

home, 
And  to  the  dear  Thanksgiving-feast  our  sons  and  daughters 

come,  — 
When  children's  children  throng  the  board  in  the  old  home' 

stead  spread, 

And  the  bent  soldier  of  these  wars  is  seated  at  the  head, 
Long,  long  the  lads  shall  listen  to  hear  the  gray-beard  tell 
Of  those  who  fought  at  Gettysburg  and  stood  their  ground 

so  well : 

"  'T  was  for  the  Union  and  the  Flag,"  the  veteran  shall  say, 
"  Our  grand  old  Army  held  the  ridge,  and  won  that  glorious 

day!" 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 


CXLVI 

C&ottfiantj 


We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more, 
From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New  England's 

shore  ; 
We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives  and  children 

dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent  tear; 
We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before  : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more! 


Three  Hundred  Thousand  More  289 

If  you  look  across  the  hilltops  that  meet  the  northern  sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may  descry ; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in  pride, 
And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave  music 

pour: 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more! 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing  harvests 

shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into  line ; 
And  children  from  their  mothers'  knees  are  pulling  at  the 

weeds, 
And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  country's 

needs ; 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage  door ; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more! 

You  have  called   us,   and  we're  coming,  by  Richmond's 
bloody  tide 

To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom's  sake,  our  brothers'  bones 
beside, 

Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the  murder- 
ous blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone  before : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 
more ! " 

James  Sloane  Gibbons 


290  Poetry  of  the  People 

CXLVII 
Cramp,  Cramp,  Cramp 

In  the  prison  cell  I  sit, 

Thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you, 
And  our  bright  and  happy  home  so  far  away, 

And  the  tears  they  fill  my  eyes, 

Spite  of  all  that  I  can  do, 
Tho'  I  try  to  cheer  my  comrades  and  be  gay. 

Chorus 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching, 
Oh,  cheer  up,  comrades,  they  will  come, 

And  beneath  the  starry  flag  we  shall  breathe  the  air  again, 
Of  freedom  in  our  own  beloved  home. 

In  the  battle  front  we  stood 

When  the  fiercest  charge  they  made, 
And  they  swept  us  off  a  hundred  men  or  more, 

But  before  we  reached  their  lines 

They  were  beaten  back  dismayed, 
And  we  heard  the  cry  of  vict'ry  o'er  and  o'er.  —  Cho. 

So,  within  the  prison  cell, 

We  are  waiting  for  the  day 
That  shall  come  to  open  wide  the  iron  door, 

And  the  hollow  eye  grows  bright, 

And  the  poor  heart  almost  gay, 

As  we  think  of  seeing  friends  and  home  once  more.  —  Cho. 

George  F.  Root 


Farragut  291 

CXLVIII 


MOBILE  BAY,  5  AUGUST,  1864 

Farragut,  Farragut, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke, 
Watches  the  hoary  mist 

Lift  from  the  bay, 
Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 

Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drums'  beat  ! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums  ; 
Men!  to  the  battlement, 

Farragut  comes. 

See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain 

Back  from  its  path  ! 
Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 
Thunderbolt  Farragut 

Hurls  the  black  ships. 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 
Clear  the  boy  sings, 


292  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five 

"  Nor'  by  east  keep  her," 
"  Steady,"  but  two  alive : 

How  the  shells  sweep  her  I 

Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks, 
Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 
Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  cannon-browed, 

While  the  spars  quiver ; 
Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 

Where  the  hulks  shiver. 
See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 

Storm  and  fire  past. 
Cheer  him,  lads,  —  Farragut, 

Lashed  to  the  mast ! 

Oh  !  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest 

Tops  a  green  vale  ; 
Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke ! 

William  Tuckey  Meredith 


Marching  through  Georgia  293 

CXLIX 


1864 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys  !  we  '11  sing  another  song,  — 
Sing  it  with  a  spirit  that  will  start  the  world  along,  — 
Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it,  fifty  thousand  strong, 

While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
i 

Chorus 

Hurrah,  hurrah  !  we  bring  the  jubilee  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  !  the  flag  that  makes  you  free! 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

How  the  darkies  shouted  when  they  heard  the  joyful  sound! 
How  the  turkeys  gobbled  which  our  commissary  found  ! 
How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from  the  ground, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia  !  —  Cho. 

Yes,  and  there  were  Union  men  who  wept  with  joyful  tears 
When  they  saw  the  honor'd  flag  they  had  not  seen  for  years, 
Hardly  could  they  be  restrained  from  breaking  forth  in  tears 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia.  —  Che. 

'-'-  Sherman's  dashing  Yankee  boys  will  never  reach  the  coast  ! 
So  the  saucy  rebels  said,  —  and  't  was  a  handsome  boast. 
Had  they  not  forgot,  alas  !  to  reckon  on  a  host, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia  --  Cho. 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare  for  Freedom  and  her  train, 
Sixty  miles  in  latitude,  three  hundred  to  the  main  ; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was  in  vain, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia.  —  Cho. 

Henry  Clay  Work 


294  Poetry  of  the  People 

CL 

SbfriBan'fif  Btte 
1864 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  dobr, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar ; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down  ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need ; 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth ; 


Sheridan's  Ride 


295 


Or  a  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind ; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops. 

What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?     A  glance  told  him  both. 

Then,  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line,  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray ; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day ! " 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 


296  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame,  — 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name, 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away ! " 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


CLI 

anto 


Old  man  never  had  much  to  say  — 

'Ceptin'  to  Jim,  — 
And  Jim  was  the  wildest  boy  he  had, 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  ! 
Never  heerd  him  speak  but  once 
Er  twice  in  my  life,  —  and  first  time  was 
When  the  army  broke  out,  and  Jim  he  went, 
The  old  man  backin'  him,  fer  three  months  j 
And  all  'at  I  heerd  the  old  man  say 
Was,  jes'  as  we  turned  to  start  away,  — 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f  !  " 

'Feared  like  he  was  more  satisfied 

Jes'  lookiti1  at  Jim 
And  likin'  him  all  to  hisse'f-like,  see?  — 

Cause  he  was  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  ! 
And  over  and  over  I  mind  the  day 
The  old  man  come  and  stood  round  in  the  way 
While  we  was  drillin',  a-watchin'  Jim  ; 


The  Old  Man  and  Jim  297 

And  down  at  the  deepot  a-heerin'  him  say,  — 
"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 
Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

Never  was  no  thin'  about  the  farm 

Disting'ished  Jim  ; 
Neighbors  all  ust  to  wonder  why 

The  old  man  'peared  wrapped  up  in  him : 
But  when  Cap.  Biggler,  he  writ  back 
'At  Jim  was  the  bravest  boy  he  had 
In  the  whole  dern  rigiment,  white  er  black, 
And  his  fightin'  good  as  his  farmin'  bad,  — 
'At  he  had  led,  with  a  bullet  clean 
Bored  through  his  thigh,  and  carried  the  flag 
Through -the  bloodiest  battle  you  ever  seen, — 
The  old  man  wound  up  a  letter  to  him 
'At  Cap.  read  to  us,  'at  said,  —  "  Tell  Jim 

Good-by ; 

And  take  keer  of  hisse'f !  " 

Jim  come  home  jes'  long  enough 

To  take  the  whim 
'At  he  'd  like  to  go  back  in  the  calvery  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  ! 
Jim  'lowed  'at  he  'd  had  sich  luck  afore, 
Guessed  he  'd  tackle  her  three  years  more. 
And  the  old  man  give  him  a  colt  he  'd  raised, 
And  follered  him  over  to  Camp  Ben  Wade, 
And  laid  around  fer  a  week  er  so, 
Watchin'  Jim  on  dress-parade  ; 
'Tel  finally  he  rid  away, 
And  last  he  heerd  was  the  old  man  say,— • 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f ! " 


298  Poetry  of  the  People 

Tuk  the  papers,  the  old  man  did, 

A-watchin'  fer  Jim, 
Fully  believin'  he  'd  make  his  mark 

Some  way — jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  I 
And  many  a  time  the  word  'ud  come 
'At  stirred  him  up  like  the  tap  of  a  drum : 
At  Petersburg,  fer  instunce,  where 
Jim  rid  right  into  their  cannons  there, 
And  tuk  'em,  and  p'inted  'em  t'other  way, 
And  socked  it  home  to  the  boys  in  gray, 
As  they  skooted  fer  timber,  and  on  and  on  — 
Jim  a  lieutenant, — and  one  arm  gone, — 
And  the  old  man's  words  in  his  mind  all  day, — 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

Think  of  a  private,  now  perhaps, 

We  '11  say  like  Jim, 
'At 's  clumb  clean  up  to  the  shoulder-straps  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Think  of  him  —  with  the  war  plum'  through, 
And  the  glorious  old  Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin'  the  news  down  over  Jim, 
And  the  old  man,  bendin'  over  him  — 
The  surgeon  turnin'  away  with  tears 
'At  had  n't  leaked  fer  years  and  years, 
As  the  hand  of  the  dyin'  boy  clung  to 
His  Father's,  the  old  voice  in  his  ears, 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 

Take  keer  of  vourse'f  ! " 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


Roll-Call  299 

CLII 


"  Corporal  Green  !  "  the  Orderly  cried  ; 
"  Here  J  "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  a  soldier  who  stood  near,  — 

And  "  Here  !  "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"  Cyrus  Drew  !  "  —  then  a  silence  fell  ; 

This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call  ; 

Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall  : 
Killed  or  wounded  —  he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  hillsides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew, 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side, 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire  ; 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

"  Herbert'  Cline  !  "  —  At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Cline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 


300  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Ezra  Kerr  !  "  —  and  a  voice  answered  "  Here  !  " 

"  Hiram  Kerr  !  "  —  but  no  man  replied. 

They  were  brothers,  these  two  ;  the  sad  wind  sighed, 
And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane  !  "  —  then  a  soldier  spoke  : 
"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said, 
"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot ;  I  left  him  dead 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies  ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  to  drink ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  Death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'Twas  a  victory,  —  yes  ;  but  it  cost  us  dear  :  — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "Here  /  " 

Nathaniel  Graham  Shepherd 


CLIII 


1861 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you  ! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Lo  !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted,  — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 


Dixie  301 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  1 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie. 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter ! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance  ! 

Fear  no  danger !     Shun  no  labor  1 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre  ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder  1 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices ! 
For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 

Secures  among  earth's  powers  its  station ! 


302  Poetry  of  the  People 

Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story  ! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness,  — 

To  arms ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow, 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms  !     To  arms !     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah  ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  I 

Albert  Pike  (for  the  original  see  Page  354) 


CLIV 


1861 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  I 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


My  Maryland  303 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steelj 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust,  v 

Maryland  ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain,  — 
"Sic  semper!'1'1  'tis  the  proud  refrain 


304  Poetry  of  the  People 

That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come  !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  My  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 
Maryland ! 


The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  305 

The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb ; 
Huzza  1  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes  !  She  burns  1  She  '11  come  !  She  '11  come ! 

Maryland,  My  Maryland ! 

James  Ryder  Randall 

CLV 
C&e  Bonnie  38ltte  JFIaff 

We  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  native  to  the  soil, 

Fighting  for  the  property  we  gain'd  by  honest  toil ; 

And  when  our  rights  were  threatened,  the  cry  rose  near 

and  far, 
Hurrah  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star ! 

Chorus 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Southern  rights,  hurrah ! 
Hurrah  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star! 

First  gallant  South  Carolina  so  nobly  made  the  stand, 
Then  came  Alabama,  who  took  her  by  the  hand ; 
Next  quickly  Mississippi,  Georgia,  and  Florida, 
All  raised  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue   Flag   that  bears  a 
single  star.  —  Cho, 

And  here  's  to  brave  Virginia !  the  old  Dominion  State 
That  with  the  young  Confed'racy  at  length  has  link'd  her 

fate; 

Impell'd  by  her  example,  now  other  states  prepare 
To  hoist  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single 

star.  —  Cho. 


306  Poetry  of  the  People 

Then  here 's  to  our  Confed'racy,  for  strong  we  are  and 

brave  ! 

Like  patriots  of  old,  we  '11  fight  our  heritage  to  save ; 
And  rather  than  submit  to  shame,  to  die  we  would  prefer, 
So  cheer  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

—  Cho. 
H.  McCarthy^  or  Annie  Chambers  Ketchum 

CLVI 

&  Georgia  Volunteer 

Far  up  the  lonely  mountain-side 

My  wandering  footsteps  led ; 
The  moss  lay  thick  beneath  my  feet, 

The  pine  sighed  overhead. 
The  trace  of  a  dismantled  fort 

Lay  in  the  forest  nave, 
And  in  the  shadow  near  my  path 

I  saw  a  soldier's  grave. 

The  bramble  wrestled  with  the  weed 

Upon  the  lowly  mound  ;  — 
The  simple  head-board,  rudely  writ, 

Had  rotted  to  the  ground ; 
I  raised  it  with  a  reverent  hand, 

From  dust  its  words  to  clear, 
But  time  had  blotted  all  but  these  — 

"  A  Georgia  Volunteer!  " 

I  saw  the  toad  and  scaly  snake 

From  tangled  covert  start, 
And  hide  themselves  among  the  weedr 

Above  the  dead  man's  heart; 


A  Georgia  Volunteer  307 

But  undisturbed,  in  sleep  profound, 

Unheeding,  there  he  lay; 
His  coffin  but  the  mountain  soil, 

His  shroud  Confederate  gray. 

I  heard  the  Shenandoah  roll 

Along  the  vale  below, 
I  saw  the  Alleghanies  rise 

Towards  the  realms  of  snow. 
The  "  Valley  Campaign  "  rose  to  mind  — 

Its  leader's  name  —  and  then 
I  knew  the  sleeper  had  been  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 

Yet  whence  he  came,  what  lip  shall  say  — 

Whose  tongue  will  ever  tell 
What  desolated  hearths  and  hearts 

Have  been  because  he  fell? 
What  sad-eyed  maiden  braids  her  hair, 

Her  hair  which  he  held  dear? 
One  lock  of  which  perchance  lies  with 

The  Georgia  Volunteer ! 

What  mother,  with  long  watching  eyes, 

And  white  lips  cold  and  dumb, 
Waits  with  appalling  patience  for 

Her  darling  boy  to  come  ? 
Her  boy !  whose  mountain  grave  swells  up 

But  one  of  many  a  scar, 
Cut  on  the  face  of  our  fair  land 

By  gory-handed  war. 

What  fights  he  fought,  what  wounds  he  wore, 
Are  all  unknown  to  fame ; 


308  Poetry  of  the  People 

Remember,  on  his  lonely  grave 

There  is  not  e'en  a  name ! 
That  he  fought  well  and  bravely  too, 

And  held  his  country  dear 
We  know,  else  he  had  never  been 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

He  sleeps  —  what  need  to  question  now 

If  he  were  wrong  or  right? 
He  knows,  ere  this,  whose  cause  was  just 

In  God  the  Father's  sight. 
He  wields  no  warlike  weapons  now, 

Returns  no  foeman's  thrust  — 
Who  but  a  coward  would  revile 

An  honest  soldier's  dust? 

Roll,  Shenandoah,  proudly  roll, 

Adown  thy  rocky  glen, 
Above  thee  lies  the  grave  of  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 
Beneath  the  cedar  and  the  pine, 

In  solitude  austere, 
Unknown,  unnamed,  forgotten,  lies 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

Mary  Ashley  Townsend 

CLVII 
§>tonetoall  3farfe  son's  (jiHap 

Come,  stack  arms,  men  !     Pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ; 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We  '11  make  a  roaring  night 


Stonewalljacksori 's  Way  309 

Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song 
Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

We  see  him  now  —  the  queer  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew ; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile  ;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue-light  Elder  "  knows  'em  well ; 
Says  he,  "  That 's  Banks,  he  's  fond  of  shell ; 
Lord  save  his  soul !  we  '11  give  him  —  "  well ! 

That's  «  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

Silence  !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all !  caps  off ! 

Old  Massa  's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff  I 

Attention !  it 's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
\n  forma  pauperis  to  God  : 
11  Lay  bare  Thine  arm ;  stretch  forth  Thy  rod.' 

Amen !  "  That 's  "  Stonewall's  Way." 

He  's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in ! 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade ! 
Hill 's  at  the  ford,  cut  off ;  we  '11  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade  ! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
"  Quick  step  !  we  're  with  him  before  morn ! " 

That 's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning,  and,  by  George  ! 


310  Poetry  of  the  People 

Here  's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Dutchmen,  whipped  before ; 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape  !  "  hear  Stonewall  roar  •, 
"  Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score  !  " 

In  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

Ah,  Maiden  !  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band ! 
Ah,  Widow  !  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah,  Wife !  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on; 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn  ; 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

That  gets  in  «  Stonewall's  Way." 

John  Williamson  Palmer 


CLVIII 

Conquered  banner 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary : 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  —  it  is  best ; 
For  there  's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there  's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it, 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it : 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  —  let  it  rest ! 

Take  that  Banner  down  !  't  is  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 


The  Conquered  Banner  311 

And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh,  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  vo  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it, 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh ! 

Furl  that  Banner — furl  it  sadly! 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave  ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 
And  that  Banner  —  it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it,  — 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it, 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ; 
And  oh,  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so ! 

Furl  that  Banner !     True,  't  is  gory, 
Yet  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust ! 


312  Poetry  of  the  People 

For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages  — 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly ! 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never ; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled ! 

Abram  Joseph  Ryan 


CLIX 
<&tre  to  tbe  Confederate  £)eatt 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause  ; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone  ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 


Dirge  for  a  Soldier  313 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 

Henry  Timrod 


CLX 

for  a 


Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low  ! 


314  Poetry  of  the  People 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye  ; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him, 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  ; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

G.  H.  Boker 


CLXI 


Break  not  his  sweet  repose  — 

Thou  whom  chance  brings  to  this  sequestered  ground, 

The  sacred  yard  his  ashes  close, 

But  go  thy  way  in  silence  ;  here  no  sound 

Is  ever  heard  but  from  the  murmuring  pines, 

Answering  the  sea's  near  murmur; 

Nor  ever  here  comes  rumor 
Of  anxious  world  or  war's  foregathering  signs. 

The  bleaching  flag,  the  faded  wreath, 

Mark  the  dead  soldier's  dust  beneath, 


Driving  Home  the  Cows  315 

And  show  the  death  he  chose ; 
Forgotten  save  by  her  who  weeps  alone, 
And  wrote  his  fameless  name  on  this  low  stone : 

Break  not  his  sweet  repose. 

John  Albee 


CLXII 

£)rtoina;  ^ome  tjje  Cotoa 


Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane  ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow-bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go  : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 


3 1 6  Poetry  of  the  People 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late. 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done ; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb: 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood 


The  Brave  at  Home  317 

CLXIII 
8Tbe  3Srate  at  l)0rae 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles ; 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory! 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword 

Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 
Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle. 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


3  1  8  Poetry  of  the  People 

CLXIV 
anto  tb 


By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead  : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet  : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe  : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 
The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 


The  Blue  and  the  Gray  319 

With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray., 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain : 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done, 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won : 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

Francis  Miles  Finch 


320  Poetry  of  the  PeepU 

CLXV 
Stbra&am  Lincoln 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 

Gentle  and  merciful  and  just  ! 
Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 

The  sword  of  power  —  a  nation's  trust 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 

Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 
And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 

That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done  —  the  bond  are  free  ; 

We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 
Whose  noblest  monument  shall  be 

The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life  ;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  right. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 

CLXVI 
©  Captain!  ffiy  Captain!  (Lincoln) 


O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done  ; 

The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 

is  won  ; 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 

daring  : 


O  Captain  !  My  Captain  /  321 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead ! 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 

Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the  bugle 

trills ; 
For  you   bouquets   and   ribbon'd   wreaths  —  for  you   the 

shores  a-crowding; 

For   you  they  call,   the  swaying  mass,   their  eager  faces 
turning ; 

Here  Captain !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ; 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You  've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still ; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will : 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done ; 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won : 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman 


322  Poetry  of  the  People 

CLXVII 
Lincoln 

[FROM  THE   ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD  COMMEMORA- 
TION OF  JULY  21,  1865] 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 

And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate  ; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 

Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 

Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 
Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief : 

Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 

To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 

And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 

Repeating  us  by  rote  : 


Lincoln  323 

For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 

That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapor's  blind; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 

Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 

And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 


324  Poetry  of  the  People 

Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes ! 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

James  Russell  Lowell 


CLXVIII 

QTbc  BqntMic 
[FROM  "THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP"] 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State ! 
Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great  I 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 


Centennial  Hymn  325 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


CLXIX 

Centennial  Jj)pirai 
1876 

Our  fathers'  God  !  from  out  whose  hand 
The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand, 
We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  Thee, 
To  thank  Thee  for  the  era  done, 
And  trust  Thee  for  the  opening  one. 

Here,  where  of  old,  by  Thy  design, 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  Thine 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 
To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 


326  Poetry  of  the  People 

Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets, 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun ; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 

Thou,  who  hast  here  in  concord  furled 
The  war  flags  of  a  gathered  world, 
Beneath  our  Western  skies  fulfil 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  FleecCj 
Send  back  its  Argonauts  of  peace. 

For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
And  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  Thee ;  but,  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold ! 

Oh  make  Thou  us,  through  centuries  long, 
In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong ; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  thy  righteous  law : 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mould, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


America  327 


CLXX 
America 

[FROM  THE  NATIONAL  ODE,  JULY  4,  1876] 

Foreseen  in  the  vision  of  sages, 
Foretold  when  martyrs  bled, 
She  was  born  of  the  longing  of  ages, 
By  the  truth  of  the  noble  dead 
And  the  faith  of  the  living  fed ! 
No  blood  in  her  lightest  veins 
Frets  at  remembered  chains, 
Nor  shame  of  bondage  has  bowed  her  head. 
In  her  form  and  features  still 
The  unblenching  Puritan  will, 
Cavalier  honor,  Huguenot  grace, 
The  Quaker  truth  and  sweetness, 
And  the  strength  of  the  danger-girdled  race 
Of  Holland,  blend  in  a  proud  completeness. 
From  the  homes  of  all,  where  her  being  began. 
She  took  what  she  gave  to  Man  ; 
Justice,  that  knew  no  station, 

Belief,  as  soul  decreed, 
Free  air  for  aspiration, 
Free  force  for  independent  deed ! 

She  takes,  but  to  give  again, 
As  the  sea  returns  the  rivers  in  rain ; 
And  gathers  the  chosen  of  her  seed 
From  the  hunted  of  every  crown  and  creed. 
Her  Germany  dwells  by  a  gentler  Rhine ; 
Her  Ireland  sees  the  old  sunburst  shine ; 
Her  France  pursues  some  dream  divine ; 


328  Poetry  of  the  People 

Her  Norway  keeps  his  mountain  pine; 
Her  Italy  waits  by  the  western  brine ; 

And,  broad-based  under  all, 
Is  planted  England's  oaken-hearted  mood, 

As  rich  in  fortitude 
As  e'er  went  worldward  from  the  island-wall ! 

Fused  in  her  candid  light, 
To  one  strong  race  all  races  here  unite ; 
Tongues  melt  in  hers,  hereditary  foemen 
Forget  their  sword  and  slogan,  kith  and  clan. 

'T  was  glory,  once,  to  be  a  Roman  : 
She  makes  it  glory,  now,  to  be  a  man  ! 

Bayard  Taylor 

CLXXI 

fur  Ctt&a 


No  precedent,  ye  say, 

To  point  the  glorious  way 
Towards  help  for  one  downtrod  in  blood  and  tears? 

Brothers,  't  is  time  there  were ! 

We  bare  our  swords  for  her, 
And  set  a  model  for  the  coming  years ! 

This  act,  to  end  her  pain, 

Without  a  hope  of  gain, 
Its  like  on  history's  page  where  can  ye  read? 

Humanity  and  God 

Call  us  to  paths  untrod ! 
On,  brothers,  on !  we  follow  not,  but  lead ! 

Robert  Mowry  Bell 


Answering  to  Roll-Calc  329 

CLXXII 

to  Roll-Call 


This  one  fought  with  Jackson,  and  faced  the  fight  with  Lee  ; 
That  one  followed  Sherman  as  he  galloped  to  the  sea  ; 
But  they  're  marchin'  on  together  just  as  friendly  as  can  be, 
And  they  '11  answer  to  the  roll-call  in  the  mornin'  ! 

They  '11  rally  to  the  fight, 

In  the  stormy  day  and  night, 
In  bonds  that  no  cruel  fate  shall  sever; 

While  the  storm-winds  waft  on  high 

Their  ringing  battle-cry  : 
"  Our  country,  —  our  country  forever  !  " 

The  brave  old  flag  above  them  is  rippling  down  its  red,  — 
Each  crimson  stripe  the  emblem  of  the  blood  by  heroes  shed  ; 
It  shall  wave  for  them  victorious  or  droop  above  them,  — 

dead, 
For  they  '11  answer  to  the  roll-call  in  the  mornin'  ! 

They  '11  rally  to  the  fight, 

In  the  stormy  day  and  night, 
In  bonds  that  no  cruel  fate  shall  sever  ; 

While  their  far-famed  battle-cry 

Shall  go  ringing  to  the  sky  : 
"  Our  country,  —  our  country  forever  !  " 

Frank  L.  Stanton 


330  Poetry  of  the  People 


A  cheer  and  salute  for  the  Admiral,  and  here  's  to  the  Cap- 
tain bold, 

And  never  forget  the  Commodore's  debt  when  the  deeds  of 
might  are  told  ! 

They  stand  to  the  deck  through  the  battle's  wreck  when  the 
great  shells  roar  and  screech  — 

And  never  they  fear  when  the  foe  is  near  to  practice  what 
they  preach : 

But  off  with  your  hat  and  three  times  three  for  Columbia's 
true-blue  sons, 

The  men  below  who  batter  the  foe  —  the  men  behind  the 
guns! 

Oh,  light  and  merry  of  heart  are  they  when  they  swing  into 

port  once  more, 
When,  with  more  than  enough  of  the  "green-backed  stuff," 

they  start  for  their  leave-o'-shore ; 
And  you  'd  think,  perhaps,  that  the  blue-bloused  chaps  who 

loll  along  the  street 
Are  a  tender  bit,  with  salt  on  it,  for  some  fierce  "  mustache  " 

to  eat  — 
Some  warrior  bold,  with  straps  of  gold,  who  dazzles  and 

fairly  stuns 
The  modest  worth  of  the  sailor  boys  —  the  lads  who  serve 

the  guns. 

"  -i*  say  not  a  word  till  the  shot  is  heard  that  tells  the  fight 

is  on, 
Till  the  long,  deep  roar  grows  more  and  more  from  the  ships 

of  "  Yank  "  and  "  Don," 


The  War-Ship  "Dixie"  331 

Till  over  the  deep  the  tempests  sweep  of  fire  and  bursting 

shell, 
And  the  very  air  is  a  mad  Despair  in  the  throes  of  a  living 

hell  ; 
Then  down,  deep  down,  in  the  mighty  ship,  unseen  by  the 

midday  suns, 
You  '11  find  the  chaps  who  are  giving  the  raps  —  the  men 

behind  the  guns  ! 

Oh,  well  they  know  how  the  cyclones  blow  that  they  loose 

from  their  cloud  of  death, 
And  they  know  is  heard  the  thunder-word  their  fierce  ten- 

inch  er  saith  ; 
The  steel  decks  rock  with  the  lightning  shock,  and  shake 

with  the  great  recoil, 
And  the  sea  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead  and  reaches 

for  his  spoil  — 
But  not  till  the  foe  has  gone  below  or  turns  his  prow  and 

runs, 
Shall  the  voice  of  peace  bring  sweet  release  to  the  men 

behind  the  guns  ! 

John  Jerome  Rooney 

CLXXIV 


They  've  named  a  cruiser  Dixie,  —  that  's  whut  the  papers 

say,— 
An'  I  hears  they  're  goin'  to  man  her  with  the  boys  that 

wore  the  gray  ; 

Good  news  !    It  sorter  thrills  me,  an'  makes  me  want  ter  be 
Whar  the  ban'  is  playin'  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  Dixie  puts  ter  sea  1 


332  Poetry  of  the  People 

They  've  named  a  cruiser  Dixie.    An',  fellers,  I  '11  be  boun' 
You  're  goin'  ter  see  some  fightin'  when  the  Dixie  swings 

aroun'  1 

Ef  any  o'  them  Spanish  ships  shall  strike  her  east  or  west, 
Jest  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  boys  '11  do  the  rest  ! 

I  want  to  see  that  Dixie^  —  I  want  ter  take  my  stan' 

On  the  deck  of  her  and  holler  :  "  Three  cheers  fer  Dixie 

Ian'  !  " 

She  means  we  're  all  united,  —  the  war  hurts  healed  away, 
An'  "  Way  down  South  in  Dixie  "  is  national  to-day  ! 

I  bet  you  she  's  a  good  'un  !     I  '11  stake  my  last  red  cent 
Thar  ain't  no  better  timber  in  the  whole  blame  settlement  ! 
An'  all  their  shiny  battle-ships  beside  that  ship  air  tame, 
Fer,  when  it  comes  to  "  Dixie  "  thar  's  somethin'  in  a  name  ! 

Here  's  three  cheers  an'  a  tiger,  —  as  hearty  as  kin  be  ; 
An'  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie  "  when  the  Dixie  puts  ter  sea  I 
She  '11  make  her  way  an'  win  the  day  from  shinin'  East  to 

West  — 
Jest  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  boys  '11  do  the  rest. 

Frank  L.  Stantott 


CLXXV 

Kate 


"  Read  out  the  names  !  "  and  Burke  sat  back, 

And  Kelly  drooped  his  head. 
While  Shea  —  they  call  him  Scholar  Jack  — 

Went  down  the  list  of  the  dead. 
Officers,  seamen,  gunners,  marines, 

The  crews  of  the  gig  and  yawl, 


The  Fighting  Race  333 

The  bearded  man  and  the  lad  in  his  teens, 

Carpenters,  coal  passers  —  all. 
Then,  knocking  the  ashes  from  out  his  pipe, 

Said  Burke  in  an  offhand  way : 
"  We  're  all  in  that  dead  man's  list,  by  Cripe ! 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here  's  to  the  Maine,  and  I  'm  sorry  for  Spain," 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"  Wherever  there  's  Kellys  there  's  trouble,"  said  Burke. 

"  Wherever  fighting  's  the  game, 
Or  a  spice  of  danger  in  grown  man's  work," 

Said  Kelly,  "you  '11  find  my  name." 
"  And  do  we  fall  short,"  said  Burke,  getting  mad, 

"  When  it 's  touch  and  go  for  life  ?  " 
Said  Shea,  "  It 's  thirty-odd  years,  bedad, 

Since  I  charged  to  drum  and  fife 
Up  Marye's  Heights,  and  my  old  canteen 

Stopped  a  rebel  ball  on  its  way. 
There  were  blossoms  of  blood  on  our  sprigs  of  green  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea  — 
And  the  dead  did  n't  brag."    "  Well,  here 's  to  the  flag  ! " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"  I  wish  't  was  in  Ireland,  for  there  's  the  place," 

Said  Burke,  "that  we  'd  die  by  right, 
In  the  cradle  of  our  soldier  race, 

After  one  good  stand-up  fight. 
My  grandfather  fell  on  Vinegar  Hill, 

And  fighting  was  not  his  trade  ; 
But  his  rusty  pike  's  in  the  cabin  still, 

With  Hessian  blood  on  the  blade." 
"  Aye,  aye,"  said  Kelly,  "  the  pikes  were  great 

When  the  word  was  « clear  the  way ! ' 


334  Poetry  of  the  People 

We  were  thick  on  the  roll  in  ninety-eight  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here  's  to  the  pike  and  the  sword  and  the  like  !  ''• 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

And  Shea,  the  scholar,  with  rising  joy, 

Said,  "  We  were  at  Ramillies  ; 
We  left  our  bones  at  Fontenoy 

And  up  in  the  Pyrenees ; 
Before  Dunkirk,  on  Landen's  plain, 

Cremona,  Lille,  and  Ghent, 
We  're  all  over  Austria,  France,  and  Spain, 

Wherever  they  pitched  a  tent. 
We  've  died  for  England  from  Waterloo 

To  Egypt  and  Dargai ; 
And  still  there  's  enough  for  a  corps  or  crew, 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here  is  to  good  honest  fighting  blood  1 " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"  Oh,  the  fighting  races  don't  die  out, 

If  they  seldom  die  in  bed, 
For  love  is  first  in  their  hearts,  no  doubt," 

Said  Burke  ;  then  Kelly  said  : 
"  When  Michael,  the  Irish  Archangel,  stands, 

The  angel  with  the  sword, 
And  the  battle-dead  from  a  hundred  lands 

Are  ranged  in  one  big  horde, 
Our  line,  that  for  Gabriel's  trumpet  waits, 

Will  stretch  three  deep  that  day, 
From  Jehoshaphat  to  the  Golden  Gates  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here  's  thank  God  for  the  race  and  the  sod !  " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke 


The  New  Memorial  Day  335 

CLXXVI 
(E&e  jBeto  JHemorial  5Dap 

"  Under  the  roses  the  blue  ; 
Under  the  lilies  the  gray." 

Oh,  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the  blue, 
And  the  lilies  we  twined  for  the  gray. 

We  have  bound  in  a  wreath, 

And  in  silence  beneath 

Slumber  our  heroes  to-day. 

Over  the  new-turned  sod 

The  sons  of  our  fathers  stand, 
And  the  fierce  old  fight 
Slips  out  of  sight 

In  the  clasp  of  a  brother's  hand. 

For  the  old  blood  left  a  stain 

That  the  new  has  washed  away, 
And  the  sons  of  those 
That  have  faced  as  foes 

Are  marching  together  to-day. 

Oh,  the  blood  that  our  fathers  gave  ! 

Oh,  the  tide  of  our  mothers'  tears ! 
And  the  flow  of  red, 
And  the  tears  they  shed, 

Embittered*  a  sea  of  years. 

But  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the  blue, 

And  the  lilies  we  twined  for  the  gray 
We  have  bound  in  a  wreath, 
And  in  glory  beneath, 

Slumber  our  heroes  to-day ! 

Albert  Sigelow  Paint 


336  Poetry  of  the  People 

CLXXVII 

<8at&  38? 


Hats  off  ! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 
A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums, 
A  flash  of  color  beneath  the  sky  : 

Hats  off! 
The  flag  is  passing  by  ! 

Blue  and  crimson  and  white  it  shines, 
Over  the  steel-tipped,  ordered  lines. 

Hats  off  ! 

The  colors  before  us  fly  ; 
But  more  than  the  flag  is  passing  by. 

Sea-fights  and  land-fights,  grim  and  great, 
Fought  to  make  and  save  the  State  : 
Weary  marches  and  sinking  ships  ; 
Cheers  of  victory  on  dying  lips  ; 

Days  of  plenty  and  years  of  peace  ; 
March  of  a  strong  land's  swift  increase; 
Equal  justice,  right,  and  law, 
Stately  honor  and  reverend  awe  ; 

Sign  of  a  nation,  great  and  strong 
To  ward  her  people  from  foreign  wrong  : 
Pride  and  glory  and  honor,  —  all 
Live  in  the  colors  to  stand  or  fall. 


When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In          337 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 
A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums ; 
And  loyal  hearts  are  beating  high: 

Hats  off! 
The  flag  is  passing  by ! 

Henry  Holcomb  Bennett 

CLXXVIII 

SlSHJjen  t&e  <25reat  <0rap  g^ips  Come  3Tn 

NEW  YORK  HARBOR,  AUGUST  20,  1898 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  mapless 

miles  of  sea, 
On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  furthermost 

isles  are  free, 
And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor,  and  height, 

and  hill, 
Breaker  and  beach  cry,  each  to  each,  "  'T  is  the  Mother 

who  calls !     Be  still !  " 
Mother !    new-found,    beloved,    and   strong   to   hold   from 

harm, 

Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her  sover- 
eign arm, 
Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who  bade  her 

navies  roam, 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls  them 

this  time  home ! 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary  watchers 

rest, 
The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep  in  the 

golden  west 


338  Poetry  of  the  People 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened  stars ! 
Peace !     As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannonade, 
Peace  at  last!   is  the  bugle  blast  the  length  of  the  long 

blockade, 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  "  Peace !    Thank 

God  for  peace." 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 

The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade  them 

rise  and  go,  — 
How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  children's 

ear, 
South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the  whole 

land  answered,  "  Here  !  " 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the 

sailor's  song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should  meet 

with  wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then,  on  the 

decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of  their 

country's  God ! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and  free, 
To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people    to  the  uttermost  ends 

of  sea, 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay  where  the  enemy  lies  in 

wait, 
To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her  across 

the  strait :  — 
But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round  heads 

for  home, 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways  339 

And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl  of  seeth- 
ing foam, 

And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the  men 
who  win ! 

Thank  God  for  peace !     Thank  God  for  peace,  when  the 
great  gray  ships  come  in  I 

Guy  Wetmore  Carryl 


CLXXIX 

flatting;  of  tfje 

Untrammelled  Giant  of  the  West, 
With  all  of  Nature's  gifts  endowed, 

With  all  of  Heaven's  mercies  blessed, 
Nor  of  thy  power  unduly  proud  — 

Peerless  in  courage,  force,  and  skill, 

And  godlike  in  thy  strength  of  will,  — 

Before  thy  feet  the  ways  divide  : 

One  path  leads  up  to  heights  sublime ; 

Downward  the  other  slopes,  where  bide 
The  refuse  and  the  wrecks  of  Time. 

Choose  then,  nor  falter  at  the  start, 

O  choose  the  nobler  path  and  part ! 

Be  thou  the  guardian  of  the  weak, 

Of  the  unfriended,  thou  the  friend ; 
No  guerdon  for  thy  valor  seek, 

No  end  beyond  the  avowed  end. 
Wouldst  thou  thy  godlike  power  preserve, 
Be  godlike  in  the  will  to  serve  ! 

Joseph  B.  Gilder 


34°  Poetry  of  the  People 


Father  and  I  went  down  to  camp, 

Along  with  Cap'n  Goodin', 
And  there  we  saw  the  men  and  boys 

As  thick  as  hasty  pudding. 

Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up, 
Yankee  Doodle  dandy, 

Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

And  there  we  see  a  thousand  men, 

As  rich  as  Squire  David  ; 
And  what  they  wasted  ev'ry  day, 

I  wish  it  could  be  saved. 

The  'lasses  they  eat  ev'ry  day, 
Would  keep  a  house  a  winter  ; 

They  have  so  much  that,  I  '11  be  bound 
They  eat  it  when  they  Ve  mind  ter. 

And  there  I  see  a  swamping  gun, 

Large  as  a  log  of  maple, 
Upon  a  deuced  little  cart, 

A  load  for  father's  cattle. 

And  every  time  they  shoot  it  off, 

It  takes  a  horn  of  powder, 
And  makes  a  noise  like  father's  gun, 

Only  a  nation  louder. 


Yankee  Doodle  341 

I  went  as  nigh  to  one  myself 

As  'Siah's  underpinning; 
And  father  went  as  nigh  agin, 

I  thought  the  deuce  was  in  him. 

Cousin  Simon  grew  so  bold, 

I  thought  he  would  have  cocked  it ; 

It  scared  me  so  I  shrinked  it  off 
And  hung  by  father's  pocket. 

And  Cap'n  Davis  had  a  gun, 

He  kind  of  clapt  his  hand  on  't, 
And  stuck  a  crooked  stabbing  iron 

Upon  the  little  end  on  't. 

And  there  I  see  a  pumpkin  shell 

As  big  as  mother's  basin ; 
And  every  time  they  touched  it  off 

They  scampered  like  the  nation. 

I  see  a  little  barrel  too, 

The  heads  were  made  of  leather ; 
They  knocked  upon  't  with  little  clubs 

And  called  the  folks  together. 

And  there  was  Cap'n  Washington, 

And  gentlefolks  about  him  ; 
They  say  he  's  grown  so  'tarnal  proud, 

He  will  not  ride  without  'em. 

He  got  him  on  his  meeting  clothes 

Upon  a  slapping  stallion, 
He  set  the  world  along  in  rows, 

In  hundreds  and  in  millions. 


342  Poetry  of  the  People 

The  flaming  ribbons  in  his  hat, 
They  looked  so  taring  fine,  ah, 

I  wanted  dreadfully  to  get 
To  give  to  my  Jemima. 

I  see  another  snarl  of  men 

A  digging  graves,  they  told  me, 

So  'tarnal  long,  so  'tarnal  deep, 
They  'tended  they  should  hold  me. 

It  scared  me  so  I  hooked  it  off, 

Nor  stopped,  as  I  remember, 
Nor  turned  about  till  I  got  home, 

Locked  up  in  mother's  chamber. 

Richard  Shuckburg 


CLXXXI 

JQatfjan 
1776 

The  breezes  went  steadily  thro'  the  tall  pines, 

A  saying  "  oh  I  hu-ush  ! "  a  saying  "  oh !  hu-ush  !  " 

As  stilly  stole  by  a  bold  legion  of  horse, 

For  Hale  in  the  bush,  for  Hale  in  the  bush. 

"  Keep  still ! "  said  the  thrush  as  she  nestled  her  young, 
In  a  nest  by  the  road ;  in  a  nest  by  the  road. 

"  For  the  tyrants  are  near,  and  with  them  appear, 
What  bodes  us  no  good,  what  bodes  us  no  good." 

The  brave  captain  heard  it,  and  thought  of  his  home, 
In  a  cot  by  the  brook ;  in  a  cot  by  the  brook. 


Nathan  Hale  343 

With  mother  and  sister  and  memories  dear, 
He  so  gaily  forsook ;  he  so  gaily  forsook. 

Cooling  shades  of  the  night  were  coming  apace, 

The  tattoo  had  beat ;  the  tattoo  had  beat. 
The  noble  one  sprang  from  his  dark  lurking  place, 

To  make  his  retreat ;  to  make  his  retreat. 

He  warily  trod  on  the  dry  rustling  leaves, 

As  he  pass'd  thro'  the  wood  ;  as  he  pass'd  thro'  the  wood  ; 
And  silently  gain'd  his  rude  launch  on  the  shore, 

As  she  play'd  with  the  flood  ;  as  she  play'd  with  the  flood. 

The  guards  of  the  camp,  on  that  dark,  dreary  night, 
Had  a  murderous  will ;  had  a  murderous  will. 

They  took  him  and  bore  him  afar  from  the  shore, 
To  a  hut  on  the  hill ;  to  a  hut  on  the  hill. 

No  mother  was  there,  nor  a  friend  who  could  cheer, 
In  that  little  stone  cell ;  in  that  little  stone  cell. 

But  he  trusted  in  love,  from  his  father  above. 

In  his  heart  all  was  well ;  in  his  heart  all  was  well. 

An  ominous  owl  with  his  solemn  base  voice, 
Sat  moaning  hard  by  ;  sat  moaning  hard  by. 

"The  tyrant's  proud  minions  most  gladly  rejoice, 
For  he  must  soon  die  ;  for  he  must  soon  die." 

The  brave  fellow  told  them,  no  thing  he  restrain'd, 

The  cruel  gen'ral ;  the  cruel  gen'ral. 
His  errand  from  camp,  of  the  ends  to  be  gain'd, 

And  said  that  was  all ;  and  said  that  was  all. 

They  took  him  and  bound  him  and  bore  him  away, 

Down  the  hill's  grassy  side ;  down  the  hill's  grassy  side. 


344  Poetry  of  the  People 

'T  was  there  the  base  hirelings,  in  royal  array, 
His  cause  did  deride  ;  his  cause  did  deride. 

Five  minutes  were  given,  short  moments,  no  more, 

For  him  to  repent ;  for  him  to  repent ; 
He  pray'd  for  his  mother,  he  ask'd  not  another, 

To  Heaven  he  went ;  to  Heaven  he  went. 

The  faith  of  a  martyr,  the  tragedy  shew'd, 

As  he  trod  the  last  stage ;  as  he  trod  the  last  stage. 

And  Britons  will  shudder  at  gallant  Hale's  blood, 
As  his  words  do  presage,  as  his  words  do  presage. 

"  Thou  pale  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy  foe, 
Go  frighten  the  slave,  go  frighten  the  slave  ; 

Tell  tyrants,  to  you,  their  allegiance  they  owe. 
No  fears  for  the  brave ;  no  fears  for  the  brave." 

Anonymous 

CLXXXII 

SUl  Otiift  along  tljr  Potomac 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing :  a  private  or  two  now  and  then 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost,  only  one  of  the  men 

Moaning  out  all  alone  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 


All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac  345 

Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires  are  gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack,  his  face  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep ; 

For  their  mother  —  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  when  low,  murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken  ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place. 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes  through  the  broad  belt  of  light? 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves, 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  ..."  Ha  !  Mary,  good-bye ! " 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 


346  Poetry  of  the  People 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night ; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead  — 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever. 

Ethelinda  Eliot  Beers 


CLXXXIII 

Centing;  on  tlje  ©IB  Camp 

We  're  tenting  to-night  on  the  old  camp  ground, 

Give  us  a  song  to  cheer 
Our  weary  hearts,  a  song  of  home, 

And  friends  we  love  so  dear. 

Chorus 
Many  are  the  hearts  that  are  weary  to-night, 

Wishing  for  the  war  to  cease, 
Many  are  the  hearts  looking  for  the  right, 
To  see  the  dawn  of  peace. 

Tenting  to-night, 
Tenting  to-night, 
Tenting  on  the  old  camp  ground. 

We  Ve  been  tenting  to-night  on  the  old  camp  ground, 

Thinking  of  days  gone  by, 
Of  the  lov'd  ones  at  home  that  gave  us  the  hand, 

And  the  tear  that  said  "  good  bye !  "  — •  Cho. 

We  are  tired  of  war  on  the  old  camp  ground, 

Many  are  dead  and  gone, 
Of  the  brave  and  true  who  Ve  left  their  homes;  — 

Others  have  been  wounded  long.  —  Cho. 


Home,  Sweet  Home  347 

We  've  been  fighting  to-day  on  the  old  camp  ground. 

Many  are  lying  near ; 
Some  are  dead,  and  some  are  dying, 

Many  are  in  tears. 

Chorus 
Many  are  the  hearts  that  are  weary  to-night, 

Wishing  for  the  war  to  cease, 
Many  are  the  hearts  looking  for  the  right, 
To  see  the  dawn  of  peace. 

Dying  to-night, 
Dying  to-night, 
Dying  on  the  old  camp  ground. 

Walter  Kittredge 


CLXXXIV 

>toeet  |)ome 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there 's  no  place  like  home ; 

A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home  ! 
There 's  no  place  like  Home  !  there  's  no  place  like  Home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ; 

O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ! 

The  birds  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my  call,  — 

Give  me  them,  —  and  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all ' 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  Home !  there  's  no  place  like  Home ! 


348  Poetry  of  the  People 

How  sweet 't  is  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile, 
And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile ! 
Let  others  delight  mid  new  pleasures  to  roam, 
But  give  me,  oh,  give  me,  the  pleasures  of  home ! 

Home  !  Home  !  sweet,  sweet  Home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  Home  !  there 's  no  place  like  Home ! 

To  thee  I  '11  return,  overburdened  with  care ; 
The  heart's  dearest  solace  will  smile  on  me  there ; 
No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam ; 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like  home. 

Home!  Home  !  sweet,  sweet  Home! 

There 's  no  place  like  Home !  there 's  no  place  like  Home  ! 

John  Howard  Payne 


CLXXXV 

a  life  on  the  ©cean  SSHatoe 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave ! 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scatter'd  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep : 
Like  an  eagle  cag'd  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore : 
Oh,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest-roar ! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand.  .  .  . 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft :  .  . 
Set  sail !  farewell  to  the  land  1 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 


Ben  Bolt  349 

We  shoot  thro'  the  sparkling  foam, 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free  ;  — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We  '11  find  far  out  on  the  sea! 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown  ; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We  '11  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down  ! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave  ! 

Efts  Sargent 

CLXXXVI 


Don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt,  — 

Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown, 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown  ? 
In  the  old  church-yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone, 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  gray, 

And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

Under  the  hickory  tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Together  we  've  lain  in  the  noonday  shade, 

And  listened  to  Appleton's  mill. 
The  mill-wheel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  rafters  have  tumbled  in, 


35°  Poetry  of  the  People 

And  a  quiet  that  crawls  round  the  walls  as  you  gaze 
Has  followed  the  olden  din. 

Do  you  mind  of  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt, 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood, 
And  the  button-ball  tree  with  its  motley  limbs, 

Which  nigh  by  the  doorstep  stood? 
The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  tree  you  would  seek  for  in  vain ; 
And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waved 

Are  grass  and  the  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remembjer  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

With  the  master  so  cruel  and  grim, 
And  the  shaded  nook  in  the  running  brook 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim  ? 
Grass  grows  on  the  master's  grave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  brook  is  dry, 
And  of  all  the  boys  who  were  schoolmates  then 

There  are  only  you  and  I. 

There  is  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben  Bolt, 

They  have  changed  from  the  old  to  the  new ; 
But  I  feel  in  the  deeps  of  my  spirit  the  truth, 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelvemonths  twenty  have  past,  Ben  Bolt, 

Since  first  we  were  friends  —  yet  I  hail 
Your  presence  a  blessing,  your  friendship  a  truth, 

Ben  Bolt,  of  the  salt-sea  gale  ! 

Thomas  Dunn  English 


My  Old  Kentucky  Home,  Good-Night          351 

CLXXXVII 
•g&V  ©ft  fcentucttp  pome,  (SooU'-Btff&t 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  the  old  Kentucky  home ; 

'T  is  summer,  the  darkeys  are  gay ; 
The  corn-top  's  ripe,  and  the  meadow  's  in  the  bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day. 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor, 

All  merry,  all  happy  and  bright ; 
By'm  by,  hard  times  comes  a-knocking  at  the  door  :  — 

Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 
O,  weep  no  more  to-day  ! 

We  will  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home,  far  away. 

They  hunt  no  more  for  the  possum  and  the  coon, 

On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore  ; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon, 

On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door. 
The  day  goes  by  like  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart, 

With  sorrow  where  all  was  delight; 
The  time  has  come  when  the  darkeys  have  to  part:  — 

Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good-night! 

The  head  must  bow  and  the  back  will  have  to  bend, 

Wherever  the  darkey  may  go  ; 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  trouble  all  will  end, 

In  the  field  where  the  sugar-canes  grow: 
A  few  more  days  for  to  tote  the  weary  load,  — 

No  matter,  't  will  never  be  light ; 
A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road :  — 

Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good-night! 


352  Poetry  of  the  People 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 
O,  weep  no  more  to-day ! 

We  will  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home,  far  away. 

Stephen  C.  Foster 


CLXXXVIII 

B  in  Be  Cofo  <0r0tmH 


Round  de  meadows  am  a-ringing 

De  darkeys'  mournful  song, 
While  de  mocking-bird  am  singing, 

Happy  as  de  day  am  long. 
Where  de  ivy  am  a-creeping 

O'er  de  grassy  mound, 
Dere  old  massa  am  a-sleeping, 

Sleeping  in  de  cold,  cold  ground. 

Down  in  de  corn-field 

Hear  dat  mournful  sound  : 

All  de  darkeys  am  a-weeping,  — 
Massa  's  in  de  cold,  cold  ground. 

When  de  autumn  leaves  were  falling, 

When  de  days  were  cold, 
'T  was  hard  to  hear  old  massa  calling, 

Cayse  he  was  so  weak  and  old. 
Now  de  orange  tree  am  blooming 

On  de  sandy  shore, 
Now  de  summer  days  am  coming,  — 

Massa  nebber  calls  no  more. 


Old  Folks  at  Home  353 

Massa  make  de  darkeys  love  him, 

Cayse  he  was  so  kind ; 
Now  dey  sadly  weep  above  him, 

Mourning  cayse  he  leave  dem  behind. 
I  cannot  work  before  to-morrow, 

Cayse  de  tear-drop  flow ; 
I  try  to  drive  away  my  sorrow, 

Pickin'  on  de  old  banjo. 

Down  in  de  corn-field 

Hear  dat  mournful  sound : 
All  de  darkeys  am  a-weeping,  — 

Massa 's  in  de  cold,  cold  ground. 

Stephen  C.  Foster 


CLXXXIX 

©to  folfefi  at  frame 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dere  's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber, 

Dere  's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 

Sadly  I  roam, 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eberywhere  I  roam ; 
Oh  !  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 


354  Poetry  of  the  People 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered 

When  I  was  young, 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I  ; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder  ! 

Dere  let  me  live  and  die. 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 

One  dat  I  love, 
Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eberywhere  I  roam  ; 
Oh  !  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home  ! 


Stephen  C.  Foster 


cxc 
lanB 


I  wish  I  wuz  in  de  land  ob  cotton  ; 
Ole  times  dar  am  not  forgotten  ; 

Look  away  !  look  away  !  look  away  ! 

Dixie  land. 

In  Dixie  land,  whar  I  wuz  born  in, 
Early  on  one  frosty  mornin', 

Look  away  !  look  away  !  look  away  ! 
Dixie  land. 


Dixie's  Land  355 

Chorus 

Den  I  wish  I  wuz  in  Dixie, 

Hooray !  hooray ! 
In  Dixie  land  I'll  took  my  stand 

To  lib  an'  die  in  Dixie. 

Away,  away,  away  down  South  in  Dixie. 

Away,  away,  away  down  South  in  Dixie. 

Ole  Missus  marry  "  Will-de-weaber," 
William  wuz  a  gay  deceaber ; 

Look  away !  etc. 

But  when  he  put  his  arm  around  'er, 
He  look  as  fierce  as  a  forty  pounder. 

Look  away !  etc.  —  Cho. 

His  face  wuz  sharp  as  a  butcher's  cleaber, 
But  dat  did  n't  seem  to  greab  'er ; 

Look  away !  etc. 

Ole  Missus  acted  de  foolish  part, 
And  died  for  a  man  dat  broke  her  heart. 

Look  away  !  etc.  —  Cho. 

Now  here's  a  health  to  de  next  ole  Missus, 
And  all  de  gals  dat  wants  to  kiss  us ; 

Look  away !  etc. 

But  if  you  want  to  dribe  away  sorrow, 
Come  and  hear  dis  song  to-morrow, 

Look  away !  etc.  —  Cho. 

Dar's  buckwheat  cakes  an'  Ingen  batter, 
Makes  you  fat  or  a  little  fatter ; 

Look  away !  etc. 

Den  hoe  it  down  an'  scratch  your  grabble, 
To  Dixie's  land,  I  'm  bound  to  trabble, 

Look  away  !  etc.  —  Cho. 

Daniel  Decatur  Bmmett 


BOOK  SIXTH  — POEMS   OF   THE 

WORLD  WAR:    HISTORICAL 

AND  PATRIOTIC 

CXCI 

C&e  38rabanconne 

[BELGIAN  NATIONAL  SONG] 

Fled  the  years  of  servile  shame ! 
O  Belgium,  't  is  thy  hour  at  last. 
Wear  again  thy  glorious  name, 
Spread  thy  banner  on  the  blast. 
Sov 'reign  people  in  thy  might, 
Steadfast  yet  and  valiant  be. 
On  thine  ancient  standard  write : 
King,  and  Law,  and  Liberty ! 
On  thine  ancient  standard  write : 
King,  and  Law,  and  Liberty, 
King,  and  Law,  and  Liberty, 
King,  and  Law,  and  Liberty. 

Belgium,  Mother,  thus  we  vow,  — 
Never  shall  our  love  abate ; 
Thou,  our  hope,  our  safety  thou ; 
Hearts  and  blood  are  consecrate. 
Grave,  we  pray,  upon  thy  shield 
This  device  eternally : 
357 


358  Poetry  of  the  People 

Weal  or  woe,  at  home,  afield, 
King,  and  Law,  and  Liberty ! 
On  thine  ancient  standards  write : 

Refrain  (as  in  Stanza  i) 


English  Version  by  the  Brussels 
War  Correspondent  of  The  Times,  1914 


CXCII 

La  ;ptar0eiUat0e 

(First  stanza) 

Allons,  enfants  de  la  patrie, 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive  ! 
Centre  nous  de  la  tyrannie 
L'dtendard  sanglant  est  levd, 
L'e"tendard  sanglant  est  leve", 
Entendez-vous  dans  les  campagnes 
Mugir  ces  fe"roces  soldats? 
lis  viennent,  jusque  dans  nos  bras, 
Egorger  nos  fils,  nos  compagnes ! 

Aux  armes,  citoyens ! 

Formez  vos  bataillons ! 

Marchons,  marchons !  qu'un  sang  impur 

Abreuve  nos  sillons ! 

C.  J.  Rouget  de  Lisle 


The  Marsellaisc  359 

CXCII 

<Ll)r  ittavsrtllatsT 

(TRANSLATION) 

Ye  sons  of  Freedom,  wake  to  glory ! 

Hark !  hark  !  what  myriads  bid  you  rise ! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary, 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries ! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding, 

With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band, 

Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding? 

To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave  ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe. 
March  on  !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 

On  victory  or  death ! 

Now,  now  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling, 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howling, 

And  lo  !  our  fields  and  cities  blaze  : 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride, 

Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing? 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave  ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe. 
March  on !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 

On  victory  or  death ! 

O  Liberty  !  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame  ? 


360  .  Poetry  of  the  People 

Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee  ? 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing 

That  falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield ; 

But  freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe. 
March  on !  march  on !  all  hearts  resolved 

On  victory  or  death ! 


CXCIII 
IHur  la  .France 

Franceline  rose  in  the  dawning  gray, 
And  her  heart  would  dance  though  she  knelt  to  pray. 
For  her  man  Michel  had  holiday, 
Fighting  for  France. 

She  offered  her  prayer  by  the  cradle-side, 
And  with  baby  palms  folded  in  hers  she  cried :  ' 
"  If  I  have  but  one  prayer,  dear,  crucified 
Christ  —  save  France! 

"  But  if  I  have  two,  then,  by  Mary's  grace, 
Carry  me  safe  to  the  meeting-place, 
Let  me  look  once  again  on  my  dear  love's  face, 
Save  him  for  France !  " 

She  crooned  to  her  boy  :  "  Oh,  how  glad  he  '11  be, 
Little  three-months  old,  to  set  eyes  on  thee ! 
For,  '  Rather  than  gold,  would  I  give,'  wrote  he, 
'  A  son  to  France.' 


Vive  la  France  361 

"  Come,  now,  be  good,  little  stray  sauterelle, 
For  we  're  going  by-by  to  thy  papa  Michel, 
But  I  '11  not  say  where,  for  fear  thou  wilt  tell, 
Little  pigeon  of  France ! 

"  Six  days'  leave  and  a  year  between  ! 
But  what  would  you  have  ?  In  six  days  clean, 
Heaven  was  made,"  said  Franceline, 
"  Heaven  and  France." 

She  came  to  the  town  of  the  nameless  name, 
To  the  marching  troops  in  the  street  she  came, 
And  she  held  high  her  boy  like  a  taper  flame 
Burning  for  France. 

Fresh  from  the  trenches  and  gray  with  grime, 
Silent  they  march  like  a  pantomime ; 
"But  what  need  of  music ?   My  heart  beats  time  — 
Vive  la  France .'  " 

His  regiment  comes.    Oh,  then  where  is  he  ? 
"  There  is  dust  in  my  eyes,  for  I  cannot  see,  — 
Is  that  my  Michel  to  the  right  of  thee, 
Soldier  of  France  ?  " 

Then  out  of  the  ranks  a  comrade  fell,  — 
"  Yesterday  —  'twas  a  splinter  of  shell  — 
And  he  whispered  thy  name,  did  thy  poor  Michel, 
Dying  for  France." 

The  tread  of  the  troops  on  the  pavement  throbbed 
Like  a  woman's  heart  of  its  last  joy  robbed, 
As  she  lifted  her  boy  to  the  flag,  and  sobbed : 
"  Vive  la  France  /  " 

Charlotte  Holmes  Crawford 


362  Poetry  of  the  People 

CXCIV 
CI)e  JRame  of  jFrance1 

Give  us  a  name  to  fill  the  mind 
With  the  shining  thoughts  that  lead  mankind, 
The  glory  of  learning,  the  joy  of  art, — 
A  name  that  tells  of  a  splendid  part 
In  the  long,  long  toil  and  the  strenuous  fight 
Of  the  human  race  to  win  its  way 
From  the  feudal  darkness  into  the  day 
Of  Freedom,  Brotherhood,  Equal  Right, — 
A  name  like  a  star,  a  name  of  light. 
I  give  you  France  \ 

Give  us  a  name  to  stir  the  blood 
With  a  warmer  glow  and  a  swifter  flood,  — 
At  the  touch  of  a  courage  that  knows  not  fear,  — 
A  name  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  clear, 
And  silver-sweet,  and  iron-strong, 
That  calls  three  million  men  to  their  feet, 
Ready  to  march,  and  steady  to  meet 
The  foes  who  threaten  that  name  with  wrong, — 
A  name  that  rings  like  a  battle-song. 
I  give  you  France  \ 

Give  us  a  name  to  move  the  heart 

With  the  strength  that  noble  griefs  impart, 

A  name  that  speaks  of  the  blood  outpoured 

To  save  mankind  from  the  sway  of  the  sword, — 

A  name  that  calls  on  the  world  to  share 

In  the  burden  of  sacrificial  strife 

Where  the  cause  at  stake  is  the  world's  free  life 

1  From  The  Red  Flou'er.   Copyright,  1916,  1917,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.   By  permission  of  the  publishers. 


The  Maple  Leaf  Forever  363 

And  the  rule  of  the  people  everywhere, — 
A  name  like  a  vow,  a  name  like  a  prayer. 

I  give  you  France  \ 

Henry  van  Dyke 

CXCV 

C&e  jIHapIe  Leaf  Jorrtttr 

[CANADIAN  HYMN] 

In  days  of  yore,  from  Britain's  shore, 

Wolfe,  the  dauntless  hero,  came, 

And  planted  firm  Britannia's  flag 

On  Canada's  fair  domain. 

Here  may  it  wave,  our  boast  and  pride, 

And  joined  in  love  together, 

The  Thistle,  Shamrock,  Rose  entwine 

The  Maple  Leaf  forever! 

Chorus 

The  Maple  Leaf,  our  emblem  dear, 
The  Maple  Leaf  forever ! 
God  save  our  King,  and  Heaven  bless 
The  Maple  Leaf  forever ! 

On  Merry  England's  far-famed  land 

May  kind  Heaven  sweetly  smile ; 

God  bless  Old  Scotland  ever  more, 

And  Ireland's  Emerald  Isle  ! 

Then  swell  the  song,  both  loud  and  long, 

Till  rocks  and  forest  quiver, 

God  save  our  King,  and  Heaven  bless 

The  Maple  Leaf  forever  !  —  Cho . 

Alexander  Muir 


364  Poetry  of  the  People 


CXCVI 
©ttter 


Bold  Watchers  of  the  deeps, 
Guards  of  the  Greater  Ways, 
How  shall  our  swelling  hearts  express 
Our  heights  and  depths  of  thankfulness 
For  these  safe-guarded  days  ! 

Grim  is  your  vigil  there, 
Black  day  and  blacker  night,  — 
Watching  for  life,  while  knavish  death 
Lurks  all  around,  above,  beneath, 
Waiting  his  chance  to  smite. 

Your  hearts  are  stouter  than 

The  worst  that  Death  can  do. 

Our  thoughts  for  you  !  —  our  prayers  for  you  ! 

There  's  One  aloft  that  cares  for  you, 

And  He  will  see  you  through. 

Don't  think  we  e'er  forget 
The  debt  we  owe  to  you  ! 
Never  a  night  but  we  pray  for  you  ! 
Never  a  day  but  we  say  for  you,  — 
"  God  bless  the  gallant  lads  in  blue! 
With  mighty  strength  their  hearts  renew. 
Bless  every  ship  and  every  crew  ! 
Give  every  man  his  rightful  due  ! 
And  bring  them  all  safe  through  !  " 

John  Oxenham 


The  School  at  War  365 


CXCVII 

at 


We  don't  forget  —  while  in  this  dark  December 
We  sit  in  schoolrooms  that  you  know  so  well 
And  hear  the  sounds  that  you  so  well  remember  — 
The  clock,  the  hurrying  feet,  the  Chapel  bell  : 
Others  are  sitting  in  the  seats  you  sat  in  ; 
There  's  nothing  else  seems  altered  here  —  and  yet 
Through  all  of  it,  the  same  old  Greek  and  Latin, 
You  know  we  don't  forget. 

We  don't  forget  you  —  in  the  wintry  weather 
You  man  the  trench  or  tramp  the  frozen  snow  ; 
We  play  the  games  we  used  to  play  together 
In  days  of  peace  that  seem  so  long  ago  ; 
But  through  it  all,  the  shouting  and  the  cheering, 
Those  other  hosts  in  graver  conflict  met, 
Those  other  sadder  sounds  your  ears  are  hearing 
Be  sure  we  don't  forget. 

And  you,  our  brothers,  who  for  all  our  praying, 
To  this  dear  school  of  ours  come  back  no  more, 
Who  lie,  our  country's  debt  of  honour  paying  — 
And  not  in  vain  —  upon  the  Belgian  shore  ; 
Till  that  great  day  when  at  the  Throne  in  Heaven 
The  books  are  opened  and  the  Judgment  set, 
Your  lives  for  honour  and  for  England  given 
The  School  will  not  forget. 

«C.  A.  A." 


366  Poetry  of  the  People 

CXCVIII 
3ft  '&  a  jfar,  far  Crp 

It 's  a  far,  far  cry  to  my  own  land, 

A  hundred  leagues  or  more ; 
To  moorlands  where  the  fairies  flit 

In  Rosses  and  Gweedore  — 
Where  white-maned  waves  come  prancing  up 

To  Dooran's  rugged  shore. 

There  's  a  cabin  there  by  a  holy  well, 

Once  blessed  by  Columbcille, 
And  a  holly  bush  and  a  fairy  fort 

On  the  slope  of  Glenties  Hill, 
Where  the  dancing  feet  of  many  winds 

Go  roving  at  their  will. 

My  heart  is  sick  of  the  level  lands, 

Where  the  wingless  windmills  be, 
Where  the  long-nosed  guns  from  dusk  to  dawn 

Are  speaking  angrily ; 
But  the  little  home  by  Glenties  Hill, 

Ah !  that 's  the  place  for  me. 

A  candle  stuck  on  the  muddy  floor 

Lights  up  the  dug-out  wall, 
And  I  see  in  its  flame  the  prancing  sea, 

And  the  mountains  straight  and  tall ; 
For  my  heart  is  more  than  often  back 

By  the  hills  of  Donegal. 

Patrick  Mac  Gill 


Evensong  in  Westminster  Abbey  367 

CXCIX 

Ctirnsong;  in  iPcetmtnstcr  &fabej» 
JUNE,  1915 

From  slanting  shadow  and  from  splintered  light, 
From  dusk  scarce  shaken  by  the  solemn  chime, 

Like  birds  whose  wings  would  fain  out-soar  the  night, 
Our  whispered  orisons  climb. 

The  glory  and  the  grief  of  yesterday 

Have  passed,  but  still  the  transept  window  glows, 
And  lifts  to  God,  as  from  a  garden  grey, 

One  many-petalled  rose. 

The  vaults  reword  the  litany  of  pain, 

The  age-old  litany  that  cannot  cease ; 
But  through  dark  tracery  and  distant  rain 

Breaks  the  white  morn  of  Peace. 

Not  to  be  spared  the  peril  and  the  test, 
Not  to  look  up  to  God  with  tearless  eyes, 

Is  the  divinest  answer  or  the  best 
To  mortal  litanies. 

Brief  clamours  rise  and  wavering  faith  sinks  low, 
But  still  man's  dream  pursues  its  sunward  curve, 

And  his  most  high  and  splendid  right  is  now 
To  suffer  and  to  serve. 

Dorothy  Margaret  Stuatt 


368  Poetry  of  the  People 

CC 
91  Carol  from  jFlaniete 

In  Flanders  on  the  Christmas  morn 
The  trenched  foeman  lay, 

The  German  and  the  Briton  born  — 
And  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

The  red  sun  rose  on  fields  accurst, 

The  gray  fog  fled  away ; 
But  neither  cared  to  fire  the  first, 

For  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

They  called  from  each  to  each  across 

The  hideous  disarray 
(For  terrible  had  been  their  loss) : 

"  O,  this  is  Christmas  Day !  " 

Their  rifles  all  they  set  aside, 

One  impulse  to  obey ; 
'T  was  just  the  men  on  either  side, 

Just  men  —  and  Christmas  Day. 

They  dug  the  graves  for  all  their  dead 
And  over  them  did  pray ; 

And  Englishman  and  German  said : 
"  How  strange  a  Christmas  Day !  " 

Between  the  trenches  then  they  met, 
Shook  hands,  and  e'en  did  play 

At  games  on  which  their  hearts  are  set 
On  happy  Christmas  Day. 


The  Soldier  369. 

Not  all  the  Emperors  and  Kings, 

Financiers,  and  they 
Who  rule  us  could  prevent  these  things  — 

For  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

O  ye  who  read  this  truthful  rime 

From  Flanders,  kneel  and  say : 
God  speed  the  time  when  every  day 

Shall  be  as  Christmas  Day. 

Frederick 


CCI 

CJje  Pointer1 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me : 

That  there 's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.   There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave  once  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends ;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke 

1  From  the  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke.    Copyright,  1915,  by 
John  Lane  Company,  New  York. 


370  Poetry  of  the  People 

CCII 
3Tn  (BnfflanU  Boto 

In  England  now  the  mounting  lark 

His  sweet  wild  music  rains, 

The  tireless  thrush  from  dawn  to  dark 

Pours  out  his  maddest  strains ; 

But  here,  strange  birds  that  sing  and  soar 

Drop  death  from  soft  spring  skies, 

The  bullets  hiss,  the  great  guns  roar, 

The  screaming  shrapnel  flies. 

In  England  now  the  daffodils 
Dance  to  the  dancing  breeze, 
The  scent  of  hidden  violets  fills 
The  air,  buds,  swell  the  trees ; 
But  here,  the  only  flowers  we  see 
Droop  on  a  grim-shaped  mound 
Where  brave  men  lie  whose  memory 

A  deathless  fame  has  found. 

Lina  Jephson 

CCIII 

Cbe  fatten  of  tlje  £)eato 

Beyond  the  salt  waste  sea 

(Where  the  grey  ships  on  guard  ride  ceaselessly) 
There  lies  the  unboundaried  Garden  of  the  Dead. 
All  day  and  night  doth  the  blind  gardener  tread 
Its  paths,  planting  together  in  one  bed 

Pale  friend,  pale  enemy. 

Yea,  these  shall  be 
Mingled  perforce  in  age-long  charity. 


The  Garden  of  the  Dead  371 

Bare  through  the  bitter  days 
Have  been  the  unlovely,  trampled  garden  ways. 

They  have  been  frozen  mud; 

They  have  run  tears,  and  blood, 

And  rain. 
And  you  would  say,  "  Spring  comes  not  back  again 

To  such  distress  "... 
And  Easter  broke,  and  fired  the  wilderness. 


Spring  flowers  blossom  in  the  Garden  of  the  Dead, 
Primroses,  daffodils,  and  wind-flowers  red ; 
Violets  creeping  in  the  turf,  dewy-eyed, 
Wall-flowers  bearing  the  cross  for  Easter-tide. 

Wind-blown  orchards,  flaunting  pink  and  white ; 
Blackthorn  a-shimmer  through  the  April  night ; 
Green  things  budding  o'er  the  plains  of  strife ; 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  for  death  young  life. 


Made  one  with  the  Easter  birth 
The  young  pale  inheritors  of  the  sweet  earth 
Are  quickened,  and  stir  in  her  breast  at  the  spring's  call. 

Have  they  lost  all, 

These  who  fell  dumb  in  the  spring-time  of  age  ? 
Have  their  still  bodies  only  peace  for  wage? 

Nay,  see  how  they  have  won 
Even  for  their  dust  a  goodly  heritage  — 

A  garden,  full  of  flowers  and  the  sun. 

Rose  Macaulay 


372  Poetry  of  the  People 

CCIV 


Oh,  blackie,  bonnie  blackie  bird, 

Hoo  can  ye  sit  an'  sing  sae  sweet? 
Hae  ye  nae  heard  the  waefu'  wird 

That  stabs  my  he'rt,  an'  gars  me  greet  ? 
Oh,  reid  the  cloods  across  the  sea, 

The  vera  burnie  's  rinnin'  reid  ; 
An'  wae  's  the  weird  that  I  maun  dree, 

For  oh,  my  sodger  laddie  's  deid. 

It  seems  but  juist  a  whilie  syne 

The  kilt  flew  flappin'  roun'  his  knee, 
An'  oot  he  mairch'd,  a  callant  fine, 

His  kep  prood  cockit  ower  his  e'e; 
He  kiss't  me  when  he  left  the  toon  — 

My  he'rt  gaed  dunt  wi'  sudden  dreed  •-— 
An'  noo  the  cannon  soughin'  soun 

Has  struck  him  doon  —  my  laddie  's  deid. 

"  Oh,  mither,  dinna  greet,"  he  said, 

"  I  '11  sune  be  mairchin'  hame  again  "  ; 
An'  weel  I  mind  —  I  felt  sae  gled 

I  grat  as  I  gaed  but  an'  ben  ! 
He  little  kenn't  ;  I  never  spak, 

But  aye  the  thocht  gaed  through  my  heid  - 
"  Oh,  laddie,  gin  ye  ne'er  come  back, 

My  he'rt  '11  brak  "  —  an'  noo  he  's  deid. 

Oh,  weary  fa'  this  waefu'  war, 
That  weeds  oor  bonnie  lads  awa, 


In  Flanders  Fields 


373 


Sae  prood  to  dee  —  sae  brave  to  daur, 
An'  blithe  to  heed  their  country's  ca' ; 

Oh,  blackie  bird,  ye  sing  o'  spring, 

For  me  —  it 's  waesome  winter's  weed ; 

Whaur  bay'nets  flash  an'  bullets  ping 
My  sodger  laddie  's  lying  deid. 

R.  A.  S. 


CCV 


In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 

That  mark  our  place  ;  and  in  the  sky 

The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.    Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie, 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe  : 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch  ;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields.  . 

Lieutenant-Colonel  John  McCrae 


374  Poetry  of  the  People 

CCVI 
<25ariianji'$  EPar  |)pmn 

[ITALIAN  NATIONAL  SONG] 

To  arms,  men !    To  arms,  men  ! 

The  graves  loose  their  captives ;  arise  our  departed ; 

Our  martyrs  come  forth,  all  our  heroes  great-hearted, 

With  sabre  in  hand,  and  their  brows  crown'd  with  laurel, 

The  fame  and  the  name  of  Italia  their  star ! 

Make  haste,  oh,  make  haste  !    Forward,  gallant  battalions ! 

Fling  out  to  the  winds  flags  for  all,  ye  Italians, 

Rise,  all  with  your  weapons  !    Rise  all  fire-impassion'd ! 

Rise,  all  fire-impassion'd,  Italians  ye  are ! 

Depart  from  our  homeland,  depart,  O  ye  strangers ! 

This  hour  gives  the  signal ;  betake  you  afar. 

Let  voices  be  silent,  let  each  arm  be  ready ! 

Let 's  face  to  the  foe,  —  let  us  march  firm  and  steady ! 

And  then  in  a  moment  the  Austrian  will  flee  us. 

One  thought  in  our  hearts  for  our  homeland  shall  flame ! 

Our  eyes  are  not  fix'd  upon  barbarous  plunder ; 

Great  princes  from  robbers  no  jealousies  sunder ; 

The  natives  of  Italy  form  but  one  nation ; 
Her  famed  hundred  cities  are  one  but  in  name  ! 
Depart  from  our  homeland,  depart,  O  ye  strangers ! 
This  hour  gives  the  signal ;  betake  you  afar. 

Luigi  Mercantini 
(Translated  by  Nathan  Haskell  Dole) 


America  Comes  In  375 

CCVII 
America  Comes  3fa 

We  are  coming  from  the  ranch,  from  the  city  and  the  mine, 
And  the  word  has  gone  before  us  to  the  towns  upon  the  Rhine ; 

As  the  rising  of  the  tide 

On  the  Old-World  side, 
We  are  coming  to  the  battle,  to  the  Line. 

From  the  valleys  of  Virginia,  from  the  Rockies  in  the  North, 
We  are  coming  by  battalions,  for  the  word  was  carried  forth : 

"  We  have  put  the  pen  away 

And  the  sword  is  out  to-day, 
For  the  Lord  has  loosed  the  Vintages  of  Wrath." 

We  are  singing  in  the  ships  as  they  carry  us  to  fight, 
As  our  fathers  sang  before  us  by  the  camp-fires'  light ; 

In  the  wharf-light  glare, 

They  can  hear  us  Over  There 
When  the  ships  come  steaming  through  the  night. 

Right  across  the  deep  Atlantic  where  the  Lusitania  passed, 
With  the  battle-flag  of  Yankee-land  a-floating  at  the  mast, 

We  are  coming  all  the  while, 

Over  twenty  hundred  mile, 
And  we  're  staying  to  the  finish,  to  the  last. 

We  are  many  —  we  are  one  —  and  we  're  in  it  overhead, 
We  are  coming  as  an  Army  that  has  seen  its  women  dead, 

And  the  old  Rebel  Yell 
.  Will  be  loud  above  the  shell 

When  we  cross  the  top  together,  seeing  red. 

"  Klaxon  " 


376  Poetry  of  the  People 

CCVIII 
Of  little  §>tar  in  rljr 

There 's  a  little  star  in  the  window  of  the  house  across  the  way, 
A  little  star,  red  bordered,  on  a  ground  of  pearly  white ; 

I  can  see  its  gleam  at  evening ;  it  is  bright  at  dawn  of  day, 
And  I  know  it  has  been  shining  through  the  long  and  dismal 
night. 

The  folks  who  pass  the  window  on  the  busy  city  street, 
I  often  notice,  turn  a  glance  before  they  hurry  by ;   . 

And  one,  a  gray  haired  woman,  made  curtsy,  low  and  sweet, 
While  something  like  a  teardrop  was  glistening  in  her  eye. 

And  yesterday  an  aged  man,  by  life's  stern  battle  spent, 
His  empty  coat  sleeve  hanging  down,  a  witness  sadly  mute, 

Gave  one  swift  look  and  halted  —  his  form  full  height,  unbent — 
And  ere  he  passed  his  hand  came  up  in  soldierly  salute. 

The  little  star  in  the  window  is  aflame  with  living  fire, 

For  it  was  lit  at  the  hearthstone  where  a  lonely  mother 

waits ; 
And  she  has  stained  its  crimson  with  the  glow  of  her  heart's 

desire, 

And  brightened  its  pearl-white  heaven  beyond  the  world's 
dark  hates. 

The  star  shall  shine  through  the  battle  when  the  shafts  of 

death  are  hurled ; 
It  shall  shine  through  the  long  night  watches  in  the  foremost 

trenches'  line;  , 

Over  the  waste  of  waters,  and  beyond  the  verge  of  the  world, 
Like  the  guiding  Star  of  the  Magi  its  blessed  rays  shall  shine. 


The  Little  Flag  on  Main  Street  377 

The  little  star  in  the  window  shall  beacon  your  boy's  return 
As  his  eyes  are  set  to  the  homeland,  when  the  call  of  the 

guns  shall  cease ; 

In  the  Flag's  high  constellation  through  the  ages  it  shall  burn, 
A  pledge  of  his  heart's  devotion,  a  sign  of  his  people's  peace. 

John  Jerome  Rooney 

CCIX 

little  flag;  on  $Satn  Street 

The  little  flag  on  Main  Street 

Is  floating  all  the  day, 
Its  stars  are  fairly  sparkling, 

Its  stripes  are  glad  and  gay. 
It  stops  the  passing  zephyrs 

To  tell  them  as  they  dance : 
"  I  have  a  battle  brother 

Who  flies  to-day  in  France !  " 

The  little  flag  on  Main  Street 

Is  streaming  all  the  night, 
It  hails  the  wheeling  planets 

Upon  their  glowing  flight. 
It  tells  the  joyful  tidings 

And  calls  to  all  its  kin  : 
"  I  have  a  battle  brother 

Who  marches  to  Berlin !  " 

McLandburgh  Wilson 


378  Poetry  of  the  People 

CCX 

a  KountJ  Strip 

In  swaddling  clothes  he  came  across  the  sea 

In  flight  from  wrong, 
Before  his  eyes  all  vast  blue  mystery, 

Waves  rolling  long, 
And  in  his  ears  an  Old  World  melody  — 

His  mother's  song. 

In  khaki  he  goes  back  across  the  sea 

To  smite  a  wrong, 
Before  his  eyes  the  ocean  majesty 

Outraged  too  long, 
And  in  his  ears  "  My  Country,  'T  is  of  Thee  "  — 

His  mother's  song. 

McLandburgh  Wilson 

CCXI 

•38ot&  IPorsflnpprtj  tfce  i&ame  <0mt  JQame 

Jack  Smith  belonged  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
Pat  Sheehan  to  the  K.  of  C. 
Both  marched  away  'neath  the  flag  one  day 
To  fight  for  the  Land  of  the  Free. 

While  Jack  stood  straight  as  he  humbly  prayed, 
Pat  knelt  at  a  candled  shrine ; 

But  the  same  great  God  heard  each  whispered  word 
That  barkens  to  yours  and  mine. 


Heroes  279 

Each  bullet  its  billet  has  got,  they  say, 

And  always  will  find  some  mark ; 

And  Pat  and  Jack  in  a  trench  mud  black 

Lay  side  by  side  in  the  dark. 

Their  life's  blood  ebbed  with  a  falling  tide 

As  they  came  toward  the  Great  Unknown ; 

But  hand  in  hand  from  that  far-off  land 

They  knew  they  were  not  alone. 

So  "  over  the  top  "  to  the  Glory  Side, 

Where  never  is  war  nor  tears  — 

Where  the  true  and  tried  in  God's  love  abide 

With  nothing  of  doubts  nor  fears. 

And  the  God  they  met  as  they  entered  in 

Where  the  souls  of  all  men  are  free 

Was  the  God  of  Jack's  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

And  the  God  of  Pat's  K.  of  C. 

Anonymous 

CCXII 

ftetat* 

The  heroes  of  the  story  books  are  ever  in  a  pose, 
They  always  die  with  words  of  high  and  lofty  verse  or  prose, 
But  when  the  old  Tuscania  went  down  with  flying  flag 
Our  khaki  gang  of  heroes  sang  a  gay  and  foolish  rag ! 

"  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go  from  here  ?  " 
Across  the  sea  the  melody  came  dancing  free  and  clear ; 
They  faced  their  fate  with  souls  elate  and  hearts  that  knew 

no  fear, 
With  "  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go 

from  here  ?  " 


380  Poetry  of  the  People 

"  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go  from  here  ? " 
A  song,  in  truth,  of  valiant  youth,  that  never  loses  cheer  ; 
They  felt  the  breath  of  clammy  death,  but  with  lilt  sincere 
Their  laughing  shout  rang  blithely  out,  "  Where  do  we  go 
from  here?  " 

It  is  a  tale  whose  wondrous  thrill  we  all  of  us  can  share 
When  brave  men  meet  their  destiny  with  spirit  debonair. 
What  foe  can  hope  with  boys  to  cope  who  sing,  when  death 

is  near, 

"  Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go  from  here  ?  " 

Berton  Braley 

CCXIII 

3T  t>abe  a  EoiUe^oua  tottl)  ^catl)1 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade,  , 

When  Spring  comes  round  with  rustling  shade 

And  apple  blossoms  fill  the  air. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath ; 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow  flowers  appear. 

l  From  Poems  by  Alan  Seeger.   Copyright,  1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.    By  permission  of  the  publishers. 


The  Red  Cross  Nurses  381 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear. 
But  I  've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger 


CCXIV 
EcU  Cross  Burses 


Out  where  the  line  of  battle  cleaves 

The  horizon  of  woe 
And  sightless  warriors  clutch  the  leaves 

The  Red  Cross  nurses  go. 
In  where  the  cots  of  agony 

Mark  death's  unmeasured  tide  — 
Bear  up  the  battle's  harvestry  — 

The  Red  Cross  nurses  glide. 

Look  !  Where  the  hell  of  steel  has  torn 

Its  way  through  slumbering  earth 
The  orphaned  urchins  kneel  forlorn 

And  wonder  at  their  birth. 
Until,  above  them,  calm  and  wise 

With  smile  and  guiding  hand, 
God  looking  through  their  eyes, 

The  Red  Cross  nurses  stand. 

TTiomas  L.  Mas  son 


382  Poetry  of  the  People 

CCXV 
Pott  aiflfu ! 

To  whom  was  denied  the  chance  of  doing  all  you  would 
have  wished  to  do.  Some  of  you  died  by  accident,  some  by 
disease,  some  by  sheer  hardship  and  overwork.  No  matter. 
Duty  is  duty,  -wheresoever  V  is  done.  So  long  as  you  died  on 
duty  you  share,  full  equal  with  the  rest,  the  gratitude  of  all 
our  hearts. 

And  you,  to  whom  it  was  not  given 
To  die  upon  the  foughten  field, — 
Yes,  you  full  equally  have  striven, 
For  you  your  lives  did  yield 
As  nobly  as  the  men  who  fell, 
There  in  the  blazing  mouth  of  hell. 

Not  in  the  wild  rush  of  the  fight 
God  saw  it  meet  for  you  to  die. 
Yet  he  who  keeps  his  armour  bright 
His  Lord  doth  magnify. 
You  answered  equally  The  Call, 
And  he  who  gives  himself  gives  all. 

Duty  is  duty,  wheresoe'er 

'T  is  done,  and  no  man  can  do  more 

Than,  in  the  testing-time,  prepare 

To  prove  him  conqueror. 

Or  here  or  there  —  no  matter  where, 

Who  dies  for  Right  hath  done  his  share, 

And  shall  the  victor's  laurel  wear. 

John  Oxenham 


Immortality  383 

CCXVI 
3fatmortalttj> 

They  are  not  dead,  the  soldier  and  the  sailor, 

Fallen  for  Freedom's  sake ; 
They  merely  sleep  with  faces  that  are  paler 

Until  they  wake. 

They  will  not  weep,  the  mothers,  in  the  years 

The  future  will  decree ; 
For  they  have  died  that  the  battles  and  the  tears 

Shall  cease  to  be. 

They  will  not  die,  the  victorious  and  the  slain 

Sleeping  in  foreign  soil ; 
They  gave  their  lives,  but  to  the  world  is  the  gain 

Of  their  sad  toil. 

They  are  not  dead,  the  soldier  and  the  sailor, 

Fallen  for  Freedom's  sake ; 
.  They  merely  sleep  with  faces  that  are  paler 
Until  they  wake. 

Lieutenant  Arthur  Bourinot 


384  Poetry  of  the  People 


POPULAR  SONGS  OF  THE  WORLD  WAR 
A  BRIEF  ACCOUNT  WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  popular  songs  of  war  are  proverbially  of  slight  literary 
merit.  Those  of  the  World  War  are  in  very  few  instances  excep- 
tions to  the  rule.  A  chance  sentiment  or  phrase  catches  the  fancy 
of  those  at  home  and  those  at  the  front.  And  in  most  cases  not 
the  words  but  the  air,  especially  the  musical  swing  of  the  chorus, 
gives  the  song  its  vogue.  Of  the  following  songs  the  first  four 
are  British. 

IT'S  A  LONG,  LONG  WAY  TO  TIPPERARY,  by  Jack  Judge  and 
Harry  Williams,  was  already  a  favorite  of  the  London  music  halls 
when  the  war  broke  out.  It  was  carried  by  the  first  British 
expeditionary  force  to  the  front,  and  the  name  of  the  Irish  county 
Tipperary  soon  came  to  be  a  synonym  for  "  home  "  all  over 
the  English-speaking  world.  The  stanzas  amount  to  nothing,  but 
the  chorus  will  never  be  forgotten. 

KEEP  THE  HOME  FIRES  BURNING,  written  by  Lena  Guilbert 
Ford  in  1915,  became  very  popular  in  America  after  we  entered 
the  war.  The  first  stanza  and  the  chorus  follow.  In  this  case 
both  the  sentiment  and  the  language  of  the  song  are  worthy  of 
the  occasion. 

They  were  summoned  from  the  hillside,1 
They  were  called  in  from  the  glen, 

And  the  Country  found  them  ready 
At  the  stirring  call  for  men. 

l  Copyright,  1915,  by  Ascherberg,  Hopwood  &  Crew,  Ltd.,  and  re- 
printed by  special  permission  of  Chappell  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  New  York  City. 


Popular  Songs  of  the  World  War  385 

Let  no  tears  add  to  their  hardships, 

As  the  soldiers  pass  along, 
And  although  your  heart  is  breaking, 

Make  it  sing  this  cheery  song :  — 

Keep  the  Home  fires  burning 
While  your  hearts  are  yearning. 

Though  your  lads  are  far  away 

They  dream  of  Home ; 
There 's  a  silver  lining 
Through  the  dark  cloud  shining; 

Turn  the  dark  cloud  inside  out, 

Till  the  boys  come  Home. 

PACK  UP  YOUR  TROUBLES  IN  YOUR  OLD  KIT-BAG,  published 
in  1915,  was  a  favorite  music-hall  song.  Its  success  was  well 
deserved.  It  is  a  fine  example  of  what  common  sense  and  cheer- 
fulness can  achieve  without  the  slightest  adornment  of  poetic 
imagery.  We  give  the  chorus. 

Pack  up  your  troubles  in  your  old  kit-bag, 1 

And  smile,  smile,  smile ! 
While  you  Ve  a  lucifer  to  light  your  fag, 

Smile,  boys  —  that 's  the  style. 
What 's  the  use  of  worrying  ? 

It  never  was  worth  while  — 
So,  pack  up  your  troubles  in  your  old  kit-bag 

And  smile,  smile,  smile ! 

ROSES  IN  PICARDY  was  written  by  Fred  E.  Weatherly  in  1916. 
The  poetic  merit  is  well  sustained  by  the  air. 

1  Copyright,  1915,  in  all  countries,  by  Francis,  Day  &  Hunter,  and 
reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with  T.  B.  Harms,  and  Francis,  Day  & 
Hunter  and  Chappel  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  New  York  City.  • 


386  Poetry  of  the  People 

Quite  different  both  in  tone  and  expression  from  the  three 
preceding  songs  are  the  first  two  of  the  American  that  follow. 

WHERE  Do  WE  Go  FROM  HERE,  catchy  and  popular  from  the 
first,  makes  no  pretense  to  elevated  sentiment  or  style.  The 
happy-go-lucky  words  of  the  first  line  of  the  chorus  have,  how- 
ever, an  historical  and  tragic  association  from  the  fact  that  they 
were  sung  by  American  soldiers  as  they  sank  to  their  death, 
February  5,  1918,  on  the  transport  Tuscania  off  the  southwest 
coast  of  Scotland.  The  incident  is  commemorated  in  the  poem 
Heroes,  by  Berton  Braley,  p.  379,  above.  The  authors  of  the 
song  are  Howard  Johnson  and  Percy  Wenrich. 


OVER  THERE,  by  George  M.  Cohan,  owes  its  wide  currency  to 
the  inspiriting  music  of  the  chorus  and  to  the  sentiment  of  the 
last  two  lines.  The  words  of  the  stanzas  require  no  comment. 


GOOD-BYE  BROADWAY  !  HELLO  FRANCE  !  by  C.  F.  Reisner 
and  B.  Davis,  of  great  popularity  during  the  war,  will,  like  the 
foregoing  song,  be  remembered  solely  for  its  chorus. 


JOAN  OF  ARC  is  one  of  the  very  few  popular  American  songs 
of  the  war  that  can  advance  any  claim  to  imaginative  heroic  con- 
ception. The  words  were  written  by  A.  Bryan  and  W.  Weston. 
We  quote  the  first  stanza  and  the  chorus. 

While  you  are  sleeping,  your  France  is  weeping ; 1 
Wake  from  your  dreams,  Maid  of  France ! 

Her  heart  is  bleeding.    Are  you  unheeding  ? 
Come  with  the  flame  in  your  glance ; 

Through  the  gates  of  Heaven  with  your  sword  in  hand, 

Come,  your  legions  to  command ! 

1  Used  by  permission  of  Waterson,  Berlin  &  Snyder,  proprietors  of 
the  copyright. 


Popular  Songs  of  the  World  War  387 

Joan  of  Arc,  Joan  of  Arc, 

Do  your  eyes  from  the  skies  see  the  foe  ? 

Don't  you  see  the  drooping  Fleur-de-lis  ? 

Can't  you  hear  the  tears  of  Normandy  ? 
Joan  of  Arc,  Joan  of  Arc, 
Let  your  spirit  guide  us  through, 

Come  lead  your  France  to  victory, 
Joan  of  Arc,  they  are  calling  you. 

THERE  's  A  LONG,  LONG  TRAIL,  written  by  Stoddard  King, 
appeals  to  the  imagination  in  a  different  way  from  the  preceding 
song.  Its  atmosphere  of  dreamy  remembrance  and  wistful  long- 
ing and  its  lingering  melody  may  contribute  to  a  continued  pop- 
ularity for  years  after  the  separations  of  the  war  have  passed  from 
the  minds  of  many  people.  The  first  stanza  and  chorus  follow. 

Nights  are  growing  very  lonely,1 

Days  are  very  long ; 
I'm  a-growing  weary  only 

List'ning  for  your  song. 
Old  remembrances  are  thronging 

Through  my  memory, 
Till  it  seems  the  world  is  full  of  dreams 

Just  to  call  you  back  to  me. 

There  's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 

Into  the  land  of  my  dreams, 
Where  the  nightingales  are  singing 

And  the  white  moon  beams : 
There 's  a  long,  long  night  of  waiting 

Until  my  dreams  all  come  true, 
Till  the  day  when  I  '11  be  going  down 

That  long,  long  trail  with  you. 

l  Used  by  permission  of  M.  Witmark  &  Sons,  publishers  and  owners 
of  the  copyright. 


SOWS  OF   THE   SELF-SAME  RACE 


What  is  the  Voice  I  hear 

On  the  wind  of  the  Western  Sea  ? 

Sentinel!    Listen  from  out  Cape  Clear, 

A  nd  say  what  the  voice  may  be. 

"'Tisa  proud  free  People  calling  loud  to  a  People  proud  and  free. 

"And  it  says  to  them,  'Kinsmen,  hail! 
We  severed  have  been  too  long ; 
Now  let  us  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale, 
The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 

A  nd  our  friendship  last  long  as  Love  doth  last,  and  be  stronger  than  Death 
is  strong.' " 

Answer  them,  Sons  of  the  self -same  race, 

A  nd  blood  of  the  self-same  clan, 

Let  us  speak  with  each  other,  face  to  face, 

A  nd  answer,  as  man  to  man, 

And  loyally  love  and  trust  each  other,  as  none  but  free  men  can. 

Now,  fling  them  out  to  the  breeze, 

Shamrock,  Thistle,  and  Rose  ! 

And  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  unfurl  with  these, 

A  message  to  friends  and  foes, 

Wherever  the  sails  of  Peace  are  seen,  and  wherever  the  War-wind  blows. 

A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake, 

For,  whenever  -we  come,  we  twain, 

The  throne  of  the  Tyrant  shall  rock  and  quake, 

A  nd  his  menace  be  void  and  vain  : 

For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  young  land,  and  we  are  lords  of  the  main. 

Yes,  this  is  the  Voice  on  the  bluff  March  gale, 
"  We  severed  have  been  too  long- : 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale, 
The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 

And  our  friendship  shall  last  as  Love  doth  last,  and  be  stronger  than  Death 
is  strong." 

ALFRED  AUSTIN 


NOTES 


BOOK  FIRST—  THE  OLDER  BALLADS 

Page  i,  I.  SIR  PATRICK  SPENS.  —  "  This  admired  and  most 
admirable  ballad,"  says  Professor  Child  in  his  English  and  Scottish 
Popular  Ballads,  "  is  one  of  many  which  were  first  made  known  to  the 
world  through  Percy's  Reliques,  1765.  Percy's  Version  "  (which  is  here 
given)  "  remains,  poetically  the  best.  ...  It  would  be  hard  to  point  out 
in  ballad  poetry,  or  other,  happier  and  more  refined  touches  than  the  two 
stanzas  which  portray  the  bootless  waiting  of  the  ladies  for  the  return  of 
the  sea-farers."  Whether  the  story  is  based  upon  the  voyage  of  Mar- 
garet of  Scotland  to  Norway  in  1281,  to  be  married  to  King  Eric,  and 
the  shipwreck  of  her  attendants  on  their  return  journey ;  or  on  the  death 
of  her  daughter  Princess  Margaret  during  a  voyage  to  Scotland  in  1290, 
matters  little.  As  Professor  Child  well  says,  "  a  strict  accordance  with 
history  should  not  be  expected,  and  indeed  would  be  almost  a  ground  of 
suspicion.  Ballad  singers  and  their  hearers  would  be  as  indifferent  to 
the  facts  as  the  readers  of  ballads  are  now;  it  is  only  editors  who  feel 
bound  to  look  closely  into  such  matters." 

Page  3,  II.  THE  BATTLE  OF  OTTERBOURNE.  —  The  Scots  and 
English,  north  and  south  of  the  Border  between  their  respective  countries, 
were,  during  the  reigns  of  Richard  II  and  Henry  IV  of  England,  in  a 
state  of  petty  warfare  even  more  keen  perhaps  than  at  other  periods  of 
history.  The  battle  of  which  this  ballad  tells  was  provoked  by  a  raid  on 
a  large  scale  into  Northumberland  under  the  command  of  James,  Earl  of 
Douglas,  and  others.  At  Newcastle  Douglas  met  Percy  in  single  combat 
and  succeeded  in  carrying  off  the  Englishman's  pennon  (spear  or  sword, 
as  the  versions  say).  Percy  caught  up  with  the  Scots  at  Otterbourne,  and 
the  sequel,  as  recounted  in  the  poem,  is  substantially  historical.  The  ver- 
sion printed  in  the  text  is  from  Scott's  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border. 
It  is  of  Scottish  sympathies  and  composition,  and  is  thought  by  Motherwell 

389 


39°  Poetry  of  the  People 

to  be  the  original  of  two  English  versions  in  the  British  Museum. 
But  Professor  Child  (English  and  Scottish  Ballads,  Pr.  VI,  289,  etc.) 
thinks  that  this  Scottish  version  had  its  own  predecessor  in  Scotland,  and 
that  this  in  turn  may  have  been  derived  from  the  English  version.  The 
parent  ballad,  whatever  its  nationality,  may  date  back  to  about  1400;  but 
the  forms  that  we  now  possess  are  of  much  later  composition. 

Page  8,  ffl.  THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT. —  The  version  here 
given  of  this  Border  ballad  is  that  of  an  Ashmolean  manuscript  (not 
earlier  than  1550)  in  the  Bodleian  Library.  The  song  was  already  old 
and  popular  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century ;  the  stanza  mention- 
ing James  of  Scotland  cannot,  however,  have  been  composed  before  1424, 
when  the  first  of  that  name  ascended  the  throne.  The  history  and  geog- 
raphy are  so  freely  poetized  as  to  render  impossible  any  attempt  to  fix  the 
circumstances  related.  The  historical  basis  may  be  the  same  as  that  of 
the  Ballad  of  Otterbourne,  but  that  place  is  not  in  the  Cheviot  region, 
and  the  battle,  which  was  fought  in  1388,  cannot  have  taken  place  in 
Henry  IV's  reign  (1399-1413),  nor  have  been  immediately  followed  by  the 
fight  at  Homildon  (1402),  nor  have  been  reported  to  James  I  of  Scot- 
land. The  Douglas,  Percy,  James,  and  Harry  may  indeed  all  have  been 
of  even  later  date  than  1424.  But  why  bother  about  dates  when  reading 
that  of  which  Sir  Philip  Sidney  wrote,  "  I  never  heard  the  old  song  of 
Percy  and  Douglas  that  I  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than  with  a 
trumpet;  and  yet  is  it  sung  by  some  blind  crowder  with  no  rougher  voice 
than  rude  style."  Ben  Jonson  used  to  say  that  he  had  rather  have  been 
the  author  of  Chevy  Chase  than  of  all  his  works;  and  Addison,  who  knew 
only  the  more  modern  and  inferior  version  of  the  seventeenth  and  eight- 
eenth centuries,  says  that  it  was  in  his  day  the  most  popular  ballad  of 
the  common  people  of  England.  (See  Child's  Ballads,  Pt.  VI.) — And 
a  vowe,  a  vow.  —  In  the  magger,  in  spite  of.  —  Dogles,  Douglas.  —  Meany, 
company,  suite.  —  So  he,  so  high.  —  The  hyls  atone,  above  the  hills.  — 
Yerly,  early.  —  Be  that,  by  the  time  that,  when.  —  Bleive  a  morte,  blew  a 
blast  to  celebrate  the  death  (mart)  of  the  deer.  —  The,  they.  —  The  sent- 
blyde  on  sydis  shear,  they  gathered  together  from  all  sides.  —  Lokyde  at 
his  hand  full  ny,  observed  near  at  hand  (Gummere). —  The  -wear,  they 
were. —  Yth,  in  the. —  Tividalg,  Teviotdale.  —  Boys,  bows.  —  Chyviat 
chays,  hunting  ground  upon  the  Cheviot  hills.  —  Cast,  intend.  —  The 
ion,  the  one,  one.  —  Yerle,  earl.  —  Uppone  a  parti  stande,  stand  aside.  — 
Do,  let  us  do.  —  Cristes  cors  on  his  crowne,  the  curse  of  Christ  on  his 
head.  —  On  man  for  on,  man  for  man.  —  Sothe,  south. —  The  first  Jit 


Notes  39 1 

here  I  fynde,  here  I  end  the  first  division  of  the  ballad.  —  Horn,  them. — 
Gave,  i.e.,  they  gave.  —  Many  a  doughete  the  garde  to  dy,  many  a  doughty 
(knight)  they  caused  to  die.  —  Many  sterne,  etc.,  many  brave  ones  they 
struck  down  straight.  —  Heal  or  rayn,  hail  or  rain.  —  Say  slean  was,  etc., 
saw  (that)  slain  was,  etc.  —  Stele,  steel  head.  —  Halyde,  pulled.  —  Even- 
songe,  vespers.  —  The  tocke,  they  took ;  words  are  here  missing  in  the 
MS.  —  Carpe  off  care,  tell  of  sorrow. — Jamy,  James  I. —  Ye-feth,  in 
faith.  —  Hombyll-d/nun,  there  was  a  battle  of  Homildon  in  1402,  though 
the  Percy  of  Otterbourne  and  Cheviot  fought  in  it  (Gummere). —  Ther 
•was  never  a  tym,  etc.,  '  There  was  never  a  time,  on  the  Border-land, 
since  the  Douglas  and  Percy  thus  met,  but  it  is  a  marvel  if  the  red  blood 
ran  not  as  rain  does  in  the  street.'  —  Balys  bete,  remedy  our  evils. 

Page  18,  IV.  EDOM  o'  GORDON.  —  This  thrilling  recital  is  both 
domestic  and  historical.  Professor  Gummere  (Old  English  Ballads) 
sums  up  the  accounts  of  its  source,  from  Child's  edition,  thus :  "  Adam 
Gordon,  a  deputy  of  the  Scottish  Queen  Mary,  in  November,  1571,  sent 
one  Captain  Ker  to  the  house  of  one  of  the  Forbeses,  a  family  attached 
to  the  Protestant  or  regent's  party.  Captain  Ker  demanded  surrender ; 
the  lady  of  the  house  refused ;  and  thereupon  he  burned  down  the  house, 
to  the  destruction  of  the  inmates.  In  some  of  the  versions  Gordon  is 
treated  as  the  principal  actor."  The  text  here  given  is  from  a  MS.  of 
the  last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century  (in  the  British  Museum),  slightly 
emended  from  other  versions  by  Professor  Gummere. 

Page  24,  V-IX.  OF  ROBIN  HOOD. — Rhymesof  Robin  Hoodarespoken 
of  as  early  as  1377  in  Piers  Plowman.  The  hero  himself  has  been  vari- 
ously assigned  to  the  reigns  of  Henry  II  (1154-1189),  Richard  I  (1189- 
1199),  Henry  III  (1216-1272),  Edward  I  (1272-1307),  Edward  II  (1307- 
1327),  and  Edward  III  (1327-1377).  There  were  indeed  no  less  than  six 
English  Robin  Hoods  in  the  flesh  during  the  forty  years  preceding  1337, 
each  earning  his  living  in  some  unimportant  but  honest  fashion.  None 
of  these  can  be  identified  with  the  ballad-hero,  who  is,  as  Professor  Child 
has  said,  "  absolutely  a  creation  of  the  ballad-muse."  He  is  no  more  a 
political  character  than  a  historical  entity.  "  In  the  Gest  of  Robin  Hood 
(the  ballads  composing  which  were  probably  put  together,  says  Professor 
Child,  as  early  as  1400,  or  before)  he  is  a  yeoman,  outlawed  for  reasons 
not  given  but  easily  surmised, '  courteous  and  free,'  religious  in  sentiment, 
and  above  all  reverent  of  the  Virgin,  for  the  love  of  whom  he  is  respect- 
ful to  all  women."  He  shoots  the  king's  deer  but  professes  loyalty  to 
the  king.  He  is  the  champion  of  the  common  people  against  such 


3  9  2  Poetry  of  the  People 

representatives  of  the  law,  civil  or  ecclesiastical,  as  show  themselves  unjust, 
overbearing,  avaricious,  or  hypocritical;  he  is  friendly  to  the  simple 
and  the  poor.  "  The  late  ballads  debase  this  primary  conception  in 
various  ways  and  degrees."  Of  the  various  fyttes,  or  divisions  of  this 
Gest  of  Robin  Hood,  we  have  given,  in  the  text,  the  seventh  under  the 
title  "  Robin  Hood  and  the  King."  Some  of  the  ballads  make  Barnsdale 
in  Yorkshire  the  basis  of  Robin's  operations  ;  some  of  another  cycle,  the 
Sherwood,  center  about  Nottingham. 

Page  24,  V.  ROBIN  HOOD  AND  LITTLE  JOHN. —  Recorded  as  early 
as  1689.  The  version  which  we  now  have  is  probably  not  the  original, 
and  still  ours  may  have  been  composed  before  1700. 

Page  29,  VI.  ROBIN  HOOD  RESCUING  THREE  SQUIRES,  or  THH 
WIDOW'S  THREE  SONS,  was  printed  by  Ritson  in  1795  from  the  York 
edition  of  a  Robin  Hood  garland  of,  which  the  earliest  date  known  is 
1670.  Ritson  thinks  that  this  is  one  of  the  oldest  Robin  Hood  ballads. 

Page  34,  VU.  The  adventure  of  ALLIN  A  DALE  is  told  as  hap- 
pening to  Scarlock  (one  of  Robin's  men)  in  a  life  of  Robin  Hood  of  the 
end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  earliest  broadsides  of  the  ballad  are 
of  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth.  —  Child. 

Page  38,  Vin.  ROBIN  HOOD  AND  THE  KING. —  The  seventh  fytte 
of  the  old  Gest,  composed,  as  stated  above,  before  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  The  text  is  from  Gummere,  as  based  upon  Child's  copy  from 
an  early  sixteenth-century  version  in  the  Advocates'  Library,  Edinburgh. 

—  The  gentyll  knight  here  spoken  of  has  been,  in  earlier  fyttes,  befriended 
by  Robin.   Here  he  is  identified  with  a  certain  Rycharde  of  the  Lee.  —  The 
kynge  is  said  by  some,  but  on  insufficient  evidence,  to  be  Edward  II,  and 
the  year,  1323.  —  Passe,  bounds.  —  Faylyd  of,  missed. —  Gone,  go,  walk. 

—  That  he  ne  shall  lese,  without  losing.  —  Halke,  corner.  —  Welt,  man- 
aged.—  Full  moche  good,  full  many  goods.  —  Departed  it,  divided  it. — 
Targe  (doubtful  reading  but  may  be),  seal.  —  In  Robyrts  lote,  to  Robin's 
lot. —  Frendes  fare,  in  spite  of  his  friend's  experience  {Gummere}.  —  For 
God,  fore  God.  —  Sent  I  me,  I  assent. —  With  that  thou,  if  thou.  —  But 
me  lyke,  unless  I  like. 

Page  47,  IX.  ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL. —  One  of  the 
most  affecting  and  unaffected  of  the  ballads.  Printed  by  Ritson  in  1795 
from  a  collation  of  two  copies  of  a  York  garland.  The  ballad  was  evi 
dently  composed  much  earlier. 


Notes  393 

Page  50,  X.  THE  DOUGLAS  TRAGEDY.  —  Put  together  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  from  two  different  copies  and  from  oral  tradition.  It 
is  also  known  as  Earl  Brand,  Lord  Douglas,  Lady  Margaret,  and  the 
Child  of  Ell.  The  theme  is  also  treated  in  north  European  ballads  of 
considerably  earlier  date. 

Page  53,  XI.  LORD  RANDAL.  —  Version  from  Scott's  Minstrelsy, 
1803.  The  story  in  various  forms  is  widely  distributed  through  Europe ; 
in  Italy  it  goes  back  two  hundred  and  fifty  years. 

Page  54,  XII.  BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL.  —  As  in  Gummere, 
Old  English  Ballads,  from  Motherwell's  Minstrelsy.  The  event  may 
be  of  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  no  one  knows. 

Page  55,  XIII.  BESSIE  BELL  AND  MARY  GRAY.  —  Well-known 
ballad  before  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century.  According  to  tradition 
Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray,  daughters  of  country  gentlemen  near  Perth, 
went  into  seclusion  in  a  bower  or  summerhouse  of  some  kind  at  a  place 
called  Burnbraes  to  escape  the  plague  in  the  city,  1645,  Dut  caught  the 
sickness  from  a  young  man  who  visited  them.  They  were  said  to  have 
been  buried  at  Dranoch  Haugh. 

Page  56,  XTV.     THE  TWA  CORBIES.  —  From  Scott's  Minstrelsy. 
Page  57,  XV.     HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL. —  From  the  same. 
Page  58,  XVI.     THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL.  —  From  the  same. 
Page  60,  XVII.    THE  DEMON  LOVER.  —  From  the  same. 


BOOK  SECOND— POEMS  OF  ENGLAND 

Page  65,  XVffi.  GOD  SAVE  THE  KING.  —  The  English  national 
anthem  has  been  ordinarily  but  without  proof  attributed  to  Dr.  John 
Bull  (1563-1628),  an  English  composer  and  organist,  and  chamber  musi- 
cian to  James  I ;  but  not,  as  is  commonly  supposed,  professor  of  music  at 
Oxford.  It  is  more  likely  that  the  song  was  written  by  Henry  Carey,  who 
died  in  1743  at  the  age  of  fifty  or  thereabout.  He  was  both  poet  and 
musical  composer;  and  to  him  we  owe  Sally  in  our  Alley  and  many 
other  popular  songs  of  far  greater  merit  than  God  Save  the  King.  It  is 
said,  however,  that  the  germ  of  this  anthem  is  found  in  one  which  Sir 


394  Poetry  of  the  People 

Peter  Carew  used  to  sing  before  Henry  VIII  (1509-1547),  of  which  the 
chorus  ran, 

And  I  said,  Good  Lord  defend 

England  with  thy  most  holy  hand 
And  save  noble  Henry  our  King. 

Page  66,  XIX.  ENGLAND.  —  From  King  Richard  77,  Act  II,  Sc.  i. 
John  of  Gaunt  upon  his  deathbed  resolves  to  rebuke  his  nephew  Richard 
II  for  the  selfish  and  riotous  policy  with  which  he  is  ruining  England.  — 
Feared  by  their  breed,  by  reason  of  their  breed. 

Page  67,  XX.  BEFORE  HARFLEUR. —  From  King  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Act  III,  Sc.  i.  In  his  invasion  of  France,  1415,  Henry  took  Harfleur, 
the  key  of  Normandy,  after  a  siege  of  thirty-eight  days.  —  Portage,  loop- 
holes. —  Jutty,  jut  over.  —  Swilled,  surrounded  by.  —  Confounded, 
troubled.  —  Pet,  fetched.  —  Copy,  example. 

Page  68,  XXI.  BEFORE  AGINCOURT.  —  From  King  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Act  IV,  Sc.  3.  (See  next  note.)  The  25th  of  October  is  called  the  day 
of  St.  Crispin  and  St.  Crispian  after  two  brothers,  early  Christians  and 
martyrs  of  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century.  They  are  the  patron 
saints  of  shoemakers.  —  To  gentle  his  condition  means  to  elevate  to  the 
status  of  gentleman. 

Page  70,  XXII.  THE  BALLAD  OF  AGINCOURT.  —  Dedicated  to  the 
Cambrio-Britons,  or  the  Welsh,  because  Henry  was  born  at  Monmouth 
in  Wales. —  Stanza  3.  Which,  for  who.  The  French  general  derides 
Henry  by  ordering  him  to  provide  for  his  ransom  even  before  the  battle 
is  begun.  —  Stanza  6.  At  Creepy  (1346)  and  Poitiers  (1356)  Edward  III, 
the  great-grandsire  of  Henry  V,  had,  with  his  son  Edward,  the  Black 
Prince,  routed  the  French.  Lilies,  tins,  fleurs-de-lis  on  the  French  coat  of 
arms.  —  Stanzas  7-14.  Sir  Thomas  Erfinghant  led  the  archery.  The 
Dukes  of  Gloucetter  and  Clarence  were  younger  brothers  of  the  king. 
The  other  warriors  were  of  the  English  nobility. 

Page  74,  XXIII.  THE  "  REVENGE."  —  For  the  incidents  of  this  ballad 
Tennyson  has  relied  mainly  upon  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  report  of  the 
engagement  published  in  1591.  At  the  time  of  the  Armada,  Grenville, 
who  had  already  distinguished  himself  by  romantic  bravery,  pride,  and 
ferocity,  had  been  commissioned  by  Elizabeth  to  protect  Cornwall  and 
Devon.  When,  later,  the  admiral,  Lord  Thomas  Howard,  was  sent  to 
the  Azores  -with  a  squadron  of  sixteen  ships,  of  which  but  six  were  of  the 


Notes  395 

line,  to  intercept  the  Spanish  treasure  fleet,  he  took  Sir  Richard  with 
him.  Overtaken  at  Flores  by  a  fleet  of  fifty-three  Spanish  men-of-war, 
he  was  forced  to  retreat ;  but  Sir  Richard,  as  vice  admiral,  stayed  to  res- 
cue those  of  his  men  who  were  sick  on  shore,  intending  to  bring  up  the 
rear  with  his  little  ship  (Drake's  ship  of  the  Armada),  the  Revenge. 

Stanza  i.  Many  cruelties  have  been  ascribed,  especially  by  those  of 
differing  faith,  to  the  efforts  made  by  the  Holy  Inquisition  in  Spain  to 
put  down  religious  movements  directed  against  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church. 

Page  81,  XXV.  THE  SALLY  FROM  COVENTRY. —  The  cavalier,  Sir 
Richard  Tyrone,  breaking  from  Coventry  Keep  during  the  Civil  War 
(1642-1649)  in  order  to  disperse  the  besieging  Roundheads,  is  surprised 
from  the  rear  by  their  allies  of  Scotland  who  march  into  Coventry  in  his 
absence. 

Page  82,  XXVI.  THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY.  —  Fought  in  Northamp- 
tonshire (or  the  "North"  of  the  poem),  June  14,  1645.  The  victory 
gained  by  the  Parliamentary  forces  decided  the  fate  of  Charles,  who  took 
refuge  among  the  Scots  and  was  within  a  year  surrendered  by  them  to 
the  English,  who  put  him  to  death  in  1649.  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  was 
general  of  the  Parliamentary  army ;  Skippon,  major  general.  Ireton  com- 
manded the  left  wing  and  Cromwell  with  his  Ironsides  stood  upon  the 
right.  The  king  —  whom  the  supposed  author  of  this  ballad,  with  his 
scriptural  name  after  the  style  of  the  Puritans,  calls  the  "  Man  of 
Blood"  and  "Accurst"  —  viewed  the  rout  from  a  neighboring  eminence. 
The  royal  cavalry  on  the  right  wing  was  under  the  immediate  charge  of 
Prince  Rupert  of  the  Rhine,  Charles's  nephew  and  the  son  of  the  Elector 
Palatine  of  Germany;  he  was  assisted  in  command  by  Sir  Marmaduke 
Langdale  and  Sir  Jacob  Astley.  —  The  animosity  of  the  Puritan  sergeant 
for  the  Churches  of  Rome  and  England  is  evident  in  his  objurgation  of 
the  '  mitre '  of  the  bishop  and  the  Mammon  (riches)  of  the  Pope.  —  Oxford 
University  sided  with  the  king.  Durham  with  its  "  stalls  "  (the  seats  in 
the  choir)  was  one  of  the  cathedral-towns  that  espoused  his  side.  —  The 
invective  against  the  Jesuits  and  the  city  of  the  seven  hills  (Rome,  of 
course)  was  provoked  by  the  suspicion  of  the  Puritans  that  Charles's 
marriage  with  Henrietta  of  France  meant  the  restoration  of  the  Catholic 
form  of  religion,  and  of  the  Order  of  Jesus. 

Stanza  i.  Wine-press,  see  Rev.  xiv.  18-20.  —  Stanza  6.  Alsatia, 
that  part  of  London  frequented  by  fugitives  from  justice,  acknowledged 
criminals,  and  bullies.  Whitehall,  the  palace.  —  Stanza  10.  Temple 


396  Poetry  of  the  People 

Bar,  one  of  the  gateways  or  barriers  of  ancient  London,  now  removed,  on 
the  top  of  which  were  exposed  the  heads  of  traitors.  —  Stanza  15.  The 
Hottses  of  Parliament  and  the  Word  of  God. 

Page  87,  XXVIII.  THE  BRITISH  GRENADIERS.  —  The  words  of  this 
stirring  military  song  date  from  about  1690,  but  the  music  is  founded  on 
an  air  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Page  88,  XXIX.  RULE,  BRITANNIA.  —  The  well-known  tune  is  by 
Arne. 

Page  90,  XXXI.  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. — Denmark,  by  entering 
into  a  coalition  with  Russia  and  Sweden  to  prevent  England  from 
searching  neutral  vessels,  brought  about  the  bombardment  of  Copen- 
hagen by  Admiral  Nelson  in  1801.  Hence  the  "  Battle  of  the  Baltic  " 
by  which  the  coalition  was  broken  up.  —  Elsinore,  the  ancient  seat  of 
the  Danish  kings,  near  Copenhagen.  —  Captain  Riou  of  the  English  fleet, 
killed  during  the  engagement. 

Page  93,  XXXII.  YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND.  —  The  first  draft  of 
this  song  (written  in  1800)  was  based  upon  an  ancient  melody,  "Ye 
Gentlemen  of  England,"  by  Martin  Parker,  about  1630,  which  has  con- 
siderable merit.  —  The  English  admiral,  Robert  Blake,  had  defeated  De 
Reuter,  De  Wit,  and  Van  Tromp  on  various  occasions  during  the  Dutch 
War  of  1652-1653.  He  died  at  sea  in  1657  after  routing  the  navies  of 
Spain.  —  Nelson  was  mortally  wounded  at  Trafalgar,  1805,  in  the  moment 
of  victory. —  The  meteor  flag,  because  of  its  fiery  hue. 

Page  94,  XXXm.  CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. — 
Wordsworth  had  in  view  both  Lord  Nelson  and  his  own  brother,  Captain 
John  Wordsworth.  The  latter  perished  in  the  wreck  of  his  vessel,  1805. 
From  the  former  the  poet  has  drawn  much  that  was  generally  acknowledged 
to  be  excellent  and  commendable  in  his  professional  career;  from  the 
latter  the  higher  qualities  of  personal  and  social  conduct. 

Page  97,  XXXIV.  THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE.  —  After  the 
capture  of  Madrid  by  Napoleon,  1809,  Sir  John  Moore,  commanding  a 
portion  of  Wellington's  army,  was  forced  to  retreat  before  the  French  and 
was  killed  at  Corunna  while  striving  to  embark  his  troops.  He  was  buried 
the  same  night  on  the  ramparts  of  the  city.  Of  the  "  Burial "  Byron  said 
that  it  was  "  the  most  perfect  ode  in  the  language." 

Page  98,  XXXV.  THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO.  — The  third  canto 
of  Childe  Harold,  from  which  these  stanzas  are  taken,  was  written  two 


JVotes  397 

years  after  Waterloo  was  fought.  The  ball  referred  to  in  the  second 
stanza  of  the  text  was  given  by  the  Duchess  of  Richmond  on  June  15, 
three  days  before  the  battle.  —  The  Duke  of  Brunswick,  commanding  a 
German  contingent  and  acting  with  Bliicher  and  Wellington,  fell  at  the 
preliminary  battle  of  Quatre  Bras,  on  the  i6th.  —  The  Camerons1  gather- 
ing stands,  of  course,  for  many  a  war  tune  of  the  Scottish  regiments. 
Byron  refers  especially  to  "  Sir  Evan  Cameron  and  his  descendant 
Donald,  the  'gentle  Lochiel'  of  the  'forty-five'  (1745)."  In  a  note  on 
the  next  stanza  Byron  says,  "  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a 
remnant  of  the  forest  of  Ardennes,  famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and 
immortal  in  Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It." 

Page  101,  XXXVI.  THE  LOST  LEADER.  —  From  Dramatic  Ro- 
mances and  Lyrics,  1845.  "A  great  leader  of  a  party  has  deserted  the 
cause,  fallen  away  from  his  early  ideals,  and  forsaken  the  teaching  which 
has  inspired  disciples  who  loved  and  honored  him.  They  are  sorrowful 
not  so  much  for  their  own  loss  as  for  the  moral  deterioration  he  has  him- 
self suffered."  Browning  in  writing  of  the  poem  some  thirty  years  later 
confesses  that  in  his  hasty  youth  he  did  use,  as  a  sort  of  painter's  model 
for  this  picture,  one  or  two  features  of  the  great  and  venerable  personality 
of  Wordsworth,  who,  though  extremely  liberal  in  his  political  sentiments 
during  his  earlier  manhood,  became,  like  many  a  hot-headed  revolutionary 
before  him  and  since,  a  rigid  conservative  in  his  middle  and  later  years. 
"  Had  I  intended  more,"  he  continues,  "  above  all  such  a  boldness  as 
portraying  the  entire  man,  I  should  not  have  talked  about '  handfuls  of 
silver  and  bits  of  ribbon.'  These  never  influenced  the  change  of  politics 
in  the  great  poet. ...  I  altogether  refuse  to  have  my  little  poem  consid- 
ered as  the  '  very  effigies '  of  such  a  moral  and  intellectual  superiority." 

Page  102,  XXXVII.  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WORDSWORTH.  —  The 
three  men  here  celebrated  are  regarded  as  the  poetic  voices  of  Europe 
during  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  period  of  storm 
and  transition,  —  a  Titanic  age  in  politics  and  poetry.  Goethe  had 
died  in  1832 ;  Byron,  in  1824,  while  assisting  the  Greeks  in  their  war  of 
independence  against  the  Turks.  Another  excellent  appreciation  of 
Wordsworth's  contribution  to  English  sentiment  and  conduct  is  William 
Watson's  poem  entitled  Words-worth's  Grave. 

Page  105,  XXXVin.  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON.  —  Septem- 
ber 14,  1852.  The  lines  "Who  is  he  that  cometh"  to  "on  my  rest"  are 
supposed  to  be  uttered  by  Lord  Nelson,  and  call  forth  the  recital  of 


398  Poetry  of  the  People 

Wellington's  feats  on  land.  This  poem  may  profitably  be  compared  with 
Longfellow's  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  a  title  borne  by  Wellington 
at  the  time  of  his  death. 

Page  114,  XXXIX.  Loss  OF  THE  "  BIRKENHEAD."  —  English  troop- 
ship wrecked  off  the  African  coast  in  1852.  "She  had  on  board  her 
crew,  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  in  number,  and  about  five  hundred 
other  persons  consisting  of  soldiers  with  their  wives  and  children.  The 
women  and  children  were  sent  off  in  the  boats.  The  men  remained  on 
board  to  face  almost  certain  death.  Many  were  young  soldiers  who  had 
been  but  a  short  time  in  the  service.  All  were  swept  into  the  sea  by  the 
waves,  and  nearly  all  were  lost"  (Montgomery,  Heroic  Ballads;  Ginn 
&  Company,  Boston).  The  clasp  and  cross  of  bronze  are  military  deco- 
rations. A  more  recent  treatment  of  this  theme  is  Kipling's  Soldier  an' 
Sailor  too  : 

Their  work  was  done  when  it  'ad  n't  begun  ;  they  was  younger  nor  me  an'  you  ; 
...  So  they  stood  an'  was  still  to  the  Birken'ead  drill,  soldier  an'  sailor  too  1 

Page  116,  XL.  THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.  —  At  the 
battle  of  Balaklava,  1854,  during  the  Crimean  War,  a  band  of  English 
light  horsemen,  "  owing  to  some  fatal  misconception  of  the  meaning  of 
an  order  from  the  commander-in-chief,  rode  a  mile  down  a  slight  slope, 
exposed  to  a  merciless  cross  fire,  for  the  purpose  of  saving  a  few  guns 
from  capture  by  the  Russians.  They  reached  the  battery,  sabred  the 
gunners,  and  rode  back,"  less  than  two  hundred  of  the  six  hundred  and 
seven  who  had  started.  "  All  the  world  rang  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion," says  McCarthy,  "  of  the  futile  and  splendid  charge.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
its  best  epitaph  was  contained  in  the  comment  of  the  French  general, 
Bosquet,  '  It  was  magnificent,  but  it  was  not  war.' " 

Page  118,  XLI.  SANTA  FILOMENA.  —  It  has  been  well  said  that  of 
all  the  heroes  of  the  Crimean  War  Miss  Nightingale  was  the  noblest. 
"  She  went  forth  not  to  slay,  but  to  heal,  and  she  came  back  with  more 
honors  on  her  brow  than  any  hero  of  them  all."  Of  the  saint  whose 
name  our  American  poet  prefixes  to  these  verses,  Mrs.  Jameson  in  her 
Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  II,  298,  says,  "At  Pisa,  the  church  of  San 
Francisco  contains  a  chapel  dedicated  lately  to  Santa  Filomena;  over 
the  altar  is  a  picture  by  Sabatelli,  representing  the  saint  as  a  beautiful, 
nymph-like  figure,  floating  down  from  heaven,  attended  by  two  angels, 
bearing  the  lily,  palm,  and  javelin,  and  beneath,  in  the  foreground,  the 


Notes  399 

sick  and  maimed,  who  are  healed  by  her  intercession."  Longfellow  in 
choosing  this  title  was  naturally  influenced  by  the  resemblance  of  the 
name  to  Philomela  (the  nightingale). 

Page  119,  XLII.  THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP.  —  The  British  soldiers  — 
English,  Welsh,  Scotch,  and  Irish  (from  Severn,  Clyde,  and  Shannon)  — 
are  besieging  Sebastopol  during  the  Crimean  War,  1855.  —  Redan  and 
Malakaff  are  Russian  forts.  The  author  is  the  American,  Bayard 
Taylor. 

Page  121,  Xl/m.  THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW. —  During  the  mutiny 
of  the  Sepoy,  or  native,  regiments  in  Hindostan,  1857,  a  number  of  Eng- 
lish women  and  children  with  but  a  small  garrison  were  besieged  in  the 
fort  of  Lucknow  from  July  i  till  September  25,  when  General  Havelock 
fighting  his  way  into  the  town  prevented  a  massacre.  The  rescue 
was,  however,  but  temporary ;  and  if  Sir  Colin  Campbell,  recently  ap- 
pointed commander  in  chief,  had  not  reached  Lucknow  with  his  plucky 
force  of  five  thousand  on  November  14,  Havelock's  soldiers  would  merely 
have  swelled  the  list  of  victims  for  whom  the  Sepoys  were  preparing  a 
frightful  end.  The  author  of  the  poem  was  the  brother  of  James  Russell 
Lowell. 

Page  124,  XLIV.  THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WORKERS.  — In  his  later 
years  Morris,  as  is  well  known,  devoted  much  time  and  energy  to  the 
furtherance  of  socialistic  doctrines.  His  best  prose  works  upon  this  sub- 
ject are  A  Dream  of  John  Ball  and  Nevus  from  Nowhere  ;  his  best  verse 
The  Pilgrims  of  Hope  and  Chants  for  Socialists.  From  the  last,  written 
in  1885,  the  poem  in  the  text  is  taken.  It  is  included  in  this  collection 
as  representing  the  poetic  high-water  mark  of  a  movement  whose  impor- 
tance in  history  no  impartial  observer  can  underrate.  Other  poems  of 
the  same  kind  are  his  Death  Song,  1887;  Ebenezer  Elliott's  Corn  Law 
Rhymes  of  1827;  Eliza  Cook's  The  People  of  England ;  Ernest  Charles 
Jones's  Songs  of  Democracy ;  Gerald  Massey's  Cries  of  Forty-Eight ; 
Brough's  Songs  of  the  Governing  Classes,  1855  5  an<^  some  of  Swin- 
burne's Songs  before  Sunrise. 

Page  126,  XLV.  RECESSIONAL.  —  Written  to  celebrate  the  close  of 
Queen  Victoria's  Diamond  Jubilee,  1897. 

Page  138,  LV.  VICAR  OF  BRAY.— Attributed  to  an  officer  in  the 
English  army  during  the  reign  of  George  I  (1714-1727).  A  certain 
Vicar  of  Bray  called  "Simon  Alleyn  was  twice  a  Papist  and  twice  a 


400  Poetry  of  the  People 

Protestant  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  Edward  VI,  Mary,  and  Elizabeth. 
Hence  the  modern  application  of  the  titl%," 

Page  142,  LVffl.  TOM  BOWLING.  —  From  a  musical  dramatic  com- 
position called  The  Oddities.  Dibdin's  sea  songs  are  not  only  numerous 
but  probably  the  best  that  England  has  produced.  —  Broached  him  to ; 
not  "too,"  as  some  editors  print  it,  conceiving  that  Death  has  tapped  him 
like  a  cask.  To  broach  to  is  a  nautical  term  meaning  to  bring  up  or 
come,  by  mistake  of  steering,  to  the  wind.  Hence  the  wreck  of  Tom 
Bowling. 

BOOK  THIRD— POEMS  OF  SCOTLAND 

Page  143,  LIX.  MY  NATIVE  LAND.  —  The  Song  of  the  Aged  Harper, 
which  opens  the  sixth  canto  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  —  Yarrow 
and  Ettrick,  rivers  in  the  south  of  Scotland. 

Page  144,  LX.  BANNOCKBURN. — Sir  William  Wallace,  attempting 
to  cast  off  the  yoke  of  suzerainty  recently  imposed  upon  Scotland  by 
Edward  I  of  England,  was  at  first  victorious,  1296-1297;  but,  overthrown 
in  the  battle  of  Falkirk,  1298,  he  was  later  taken  prisoner  by  the  English 
and  in  1305  put  to  death  as  a  traitor.  Robert  Bruce,  who  arose  to  fill 
his  place,  was  crowned  king  of  Scotland  in  1306.  In  1314  he  met  and 
routed  the  forces  of  England  under  Edward  II  at  Bannockburn,  thus 
regaining  for  his  country  its  independence. 

Page  145,  LXI.  GATHERING  SONG.  —  "  This,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
"  is  a  very  ancient  pibroch  belonging  to  Clan  MacDonald,  and  supposed 
to  refer  to  the  expedition  of  Donald  Balloch,  who  in  1431  launched  from 
the  Isles  with  a  considerable  force,  invaded  Lochaber,  and  at  Inverlochy 
defeated  and  put  to  flight  the  Earls  of  Mar  and  Caithness,  though  at  the 
head  of  an  army  superior  to  his  own." 

Page  146,  LXII.  THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST,  ETC. —  The  Forest 
here  is  a  district  of  Scotland  "  which  boasted  the  best  archers  and  per- 
haps the  finest  men  in  the  kingdom.  It  comprehended  Selkirkshire, 
part  of  Peeblesshire  and  of  Clydesdale."  The  battle  of  Flodden  (1513) 
was  one  of  the  most  awful  disasters  that  have  ever  befallen  Scotland. 
James  IV,  who  had  invaded  England  at  the  head  of  thirty  thousand 
men,  was  utterly  crushed  by  the  English  commander,  the  Earl  of  Surrey, 
and,  in  company  with  the  flower  of  Scottish  chivalry  and  yeomen,  lost 


Notes  401 

his  life.  The  kst  part  of  the  poem  as  here  given,  beginning  with  stanza 
4,  was  written  by  Alison  Rutherford  (afterward  Mrs.  Cockburn)  as  a 
complete  song  several  years  before  her  younger  contemporary,  Jean  Elliot, 
wrote  the  first  three  stanzas. 

Page  149,  LXIII.  BLUE  BONNETS  OVER  THE  BORDER.  —  From  Tht 
Monastery,  Chapter  XXV.  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  was  born  1542, 
crowned  1543.  She  fled  to  England,  1568,  and  was  beheaded  on  charge 
of  conspiring  against  the  life  of  Elizabeth,  1587.  Sir  Walter  founded 
this  song,  however,  on  a  later  production  of  popular  origin  composed  to 
celebrate  General  Lesley's  (the  Earl  of  Leven's)  march  over  the  Border 
to  Longmarston  Moor,  where  in  1644  he  helped  to  overcome  the  forces 
of  Charles  L 

Page  150,  LXIV.  THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE.  —  Having  headed 
a  fruitless  rising  in  favor  of  Charles,  afterward  the  Second,  in  1650,  the 
Marquis  of  Montrose  (James  Graham,  or  Graeme)  "  was  taken  prisoner 
and  executed  in  Edinburgh  (Dunedin)  with  all  the  vindictive  insult  that 
his  hereditary  enemy,  the  Marquis  of  Argyle  (Archibald  Campbell),  him- 
self suspected  of  having  previously  plotted  the  execution  of  Charles  I, 
could  heap  upon  him."  According  to  Professor  Aytoun,  "  The  most 
poetical  chronicler  would  find  it  impossible  to  render  the  incidents  of 
Montrose's  brilliant  career  more  picturesque  than  the  reality.  Among 
the  devoted  champions,  who,  during  the  wildest  and  most  stormy  period 
of  our  history,  maintained  the  cause  of  Church  and  King  '  the  great 
Marquis '  undoubtedly  is  entitled  to  the  foremost  place.  Cardinal  Retz 
has  said  of  him  '  he  is  the  only  man  in  the  world  that  has  ever  realized 
to  me  the  ideas  of  certain  heroes  whom  we  now  discover  nowhere  but  in 
the  lives  of  Plutarch.'  .  .  .  There  is  no  ingredient  of  fiction  in  the  histor- 
ical incidents  recorded  in  the  following  ballad.  ...  It  may  be  considered 
as  a  narrative  of  the  transactions  related  by  an  aged  Highlander,  who 
had  followed  Montrose  through  his  campaigns,  to  his  grandson  —  Evan 
Cameron."  Macleod  of  Assynt  betrayed  Montrose  to  his  enemies. — 
The  Watergate,  in  Edinburgh.  —  The  Solemn  League  and  Covenant 
between  the  Scottish  church  and  the  English  Parliament,  1643,  aimed  to 
establish  Presbyterianism  throughout  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  —  The 
flag  bore  the  cross  of  Saint  Andrew,  the  patron  of  Scotland.  The  Presby- 
terian ministers  had  been  largely  trained  under  John  Calvin  at  Geneva. 

Page  157,  LXV.  THE  BONNETS  o'  BONNIE  DUNDEE.  —  After 
James  II  had  fled  from  England  before  the  invading  army  of  William  of 


402  Poetry  of  the  People 

Orange  (William  III),  his  cause  was  maintained  in  Scotland  by  Viscount 
Dundee  (John  Graham  of  Claverhouse),  the  Duke  of  Gordon,  and  others. 
The  Lords  of  Convention,  or  Scottish  Parliament,  in  spite  of  the  threats 
of  Claverhouse  (Claver'se),  swore  allegiance  to  William  and  Mary ;  and  the 
Whig,  or  Puritan,  element  of  the  city  of  Edinburgh  approved  their  decision. 
The  Viscount  galloped  away  to  raise  an  army  of  Highland  chieftains  and 
their  clans,  "wild  Duniewassals"  in  the  North,  for  the  Lowland  lords 
also  had  thrown  their  influence  to  King  William.  —  The  Westfort,  the 
western  gate.  —  The  Bow,  a  famous  street  whose  "  bends  "  had  been  "  sancti- 
fied" by  the  assembling  there  of  the  Scottish  Church.  —  The  Grass-Market, 
a  central  square.  —  The  Covenanting  Protestants  from  Kilmarnock  are 
sneeringly  called  "cowls"  because  of  their  austere  appearance. — Mons 
Meg  and  her  marrows  (companions)  are  the  cannon  in  the  castle.  —  Vis- 
count Dundee  boasts  that  not  all  the  power  of  Scotland  is  confined 
within  the  environment  of  Edinburgh  bounded  by  the  Pcntland  Hills  and 
the  Firth  of  Forth.  —  Ravelston  and  Clermiston  are  near  Edinburgh. — 
For  Montrose,  see  the  preceding  poem.  —  A  good  characterization  of 
Claverhouse  may  be  found  in  Scott's  Old  Mortality  and  in  Aytoun's 
Burial  March  of  Dundee.  The  poem  is  in  the  Doom  of  Devorgoil. 

Page  159,  LXVI.  THE  OLD  SCOTTISH  CAVALIER.  —  William  Ed- 
monstoune  Aytoun,  the  author  of  the  stirring  Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cava- 
liers, 1849,  was  a  professor  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  He  says  in 
his  preface  to  th.is  poem  that  the  subject  of  it  is  Alexander  Forbes,  Lord 
Pitsligo,  a  nobleman  whose  conscientious  views  impelled  him  to  follow 
the  fortunes  of  the  exiled  house  of  Stuart.  His  castle  by  the  Spey  was 
in  Aberdeenshire.  Of  the  cavalier  of  the  lay  it  is  said  that  his  father 
had  died  for  James  II  in  1689,  at  Killiecrankie  Pass,  with  that  Graeme 
of  Claverhouse  celebrated  in  The  Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee ;  and  that 
he  himself  was  with  Prince  Charles  "Edward  in  the  Jacobite  victory 
at  Prestonpans,  and  fell  in  the  battle  that  decided  the  fate  of  the 
Jacobite  cause,  —  Culloden  Moor,  1746.  —  The  White  Rose  and  the 
White  Cockade  are,  of  course,  emblems  of  the  Stuarts. 

Page  162,  LXVn.  THE  LAMENT  OF  FLORA  MACDONALD.  —  After 
his  flight  from  Culloden,  Charles  Edward  Stuart  was  saved  from  the 
pursuit  of  some  two  thousand  men  by  Flora  Macdonald,  who  took  him 
over  the  Skye  in  disguise.  After  numerous  hardships,  he  reembarked 
for  France  some  five  months  later.  In  the  Jacobite  Relics,  James  Hogg 
says  that  he  versified  anew  the  original  of  this  song  which  he  had  obtained 
in  a  rude  translation  from  the  Gaelic. 


Notes  403 

Page  163,  LXVUI.  WAE  's  ME  FOR  PRINCE  CHARLIE.  —  James 
Hogg  attributes  this  song  to  William  Glen  of  Glasgow,  author  of  a  few 
other  popular  songs.  The  Young  Pretender's  ill-starred  invasion  of 
Great  Britain  was  brought  to  a  close  at  Culloden,  April  16,  1746. 

Page  165,  LXX.  THE  BLUE  BELL  OF  SCOTLAND.  —  This  version  is 
from  Chappell's  Popular  Music  of  the  Olden  Time  and  Ritson's  North 
Country  Chorister.  The  well-known  air  was  composed  by  Mrs.  Jordan, 
perhaps  as  early  as  1786 ;  she  sang  it  first  in  London  in  1786,  and  again 
in  1800,  when  it  acquired  general  popularity.  Chappell  describes  it  as 
an  "  old  English  Border  song,"  and  the  version  given  by  him  is  far 
older  and  simpler  than  others  (like  that  attributed  to  Mrs.  Grant  of 
Laggan,  1799,  which  has  nothing  about  the  Blue  Bell,  and  need  not  be 
here  retailed).  Miss  Stirling  Graham's  still  more  recent  version  has 
"  where  blooms  the  sweet  blue  bell,"  which  may  be  poetic  but  is  less 
naive  than  the  commemoration  of  the  tavern  sign  which  is  found  in  the 
original. 

Page  166,  LXXI.  ANNIE  LAURIE.—  The  heroine  of  this  the  sweet- 
est of  Scottish  love  songs  was  born  on  December  16,  1682, — one  of  four 
daughters  of  Sir  Robert  Laurie  of  Maxwelton  House,  Scotland.  We 
may  conjecture  that  it  was  about  1700  that  she  "  made  up  the  bargain" 
with  the  lover  who  immortalized  her,  William  Douglas  of  Finland,  or 
Fingland.  But  "  he  didna  get  her  after  a',"  said  his  own  granddaughter, 
Clark  Douglas,  an  old  lady  who  was  still  living  in  1854.  According  to 
her,  the  words  as  sung  at  that  date  were  not  as  they  first  were  written. 
"  Oh,  I  mind  them  fine,"  she  said,  "  I  have  remembered  them  a'  my  life. 
My  father  often  repeated  them  to  me."  She  then  recited : 

Maxwel ton's  banks  are  bonnie, 

They're  a'  clad  owre  wi'  dew, 
Where  I  an'  Annie  Laurie 
Made  up  the  bargain  true. 
Made  up  the  bargain  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  s'all  be, 
An'  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doun  an'  dee,  — 

but  remembered  "  nae  mair."  And  probably  that  was  all  that  Douglas  of 
Fingland  had  composed.  The  second  stanza  of  the  song,  as  it  was  said 
to  have  been  written  by  him,  might  have  been  put  together  by  anybody ;  for 
there  is  only  one  line  that  evinces  any  effort  of  composition.  The  first 


404  Poetry  of  the  People 

five  were  borrowed,  says  Fitzgerald,  from  an  old  ballad  of  John  Anderson, 
my  Jo,  and  the  last  two  are  simply  the  refrain.  The  following  is  the  old 
second  stanza,  as  attributed  to  Douglas : 

She's  backit  like  the  peacock, 
She's  bristit  like  the  swan, 
She  's  jimp  around  the  middle, 
Her  waist  ye  weel  micht  span  — 
Her  waist  ye  weel  micht  span — 

An'  she  has  a  rolling  ee, 

An'  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doun  an'  dee. 

The  first  stanza  was  altered  by  Lady  John  Scott  to  the  form  given  in 
the  text.  She  substituted  the  second  as  there  given;  and  added  the 
third.  The  third  line  of  her  third  stanza  has  been  changed  by  some  one, 
but  without  advantage,  to  "  Like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing."  Fitz- 
gerald (in  whose  Famous  Songs  the  poem  is  discussed)  says  that  the 
melody  now  sung  was  composed  by  this  lady,  though  it  is  attributed  by 
some  to  a  Scotchman  named  R.  Findlater. 

Page  167,  LXXII.  LOCHABER.  —  "A  lady,  in  whose  father's  house  at 
Edinburgh  Burns  was  a  frequent  and  honored  guest,  one  evening  played 
the  tune  of  Lochaber  on  the  harpsichord  to  Burns.  He  listened  to  it 
attentively,  and  then  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, '  Oh,  tliat  's  a  fine 
tune  for  a  broken  heart.'  It  is  said  that  the  tune  is  derived  from  a 
seventeenth-century  air  of  Irish  composition  entitled  King  James's 
March  to  Ireland"  —  Wood's  Scottish  Songs. 

Page  168,  LXXm.  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE.  —  This  Burns 
used  to  call  "  the  finest  love-ballad  of  the  kind  in  the  Scottish  or  perhaps 
any  other  language."  While  it  is  said  to  have  been  written  by  William 
Mickle,  we  know  that  the  fifth  and  most  poetic  stanza  was  added  by  Dr. 
James  Beattie. 

Page  171,  LXXIV.  A  RED,  RED  ROSE. —  Burns's  contribution  to 
this  song  would  seem  to  be  limited  to  the  exquisite  first  stanza.  The 
rest  constitute  a  very  old  ditty,  said  to  have  been  written  by  a  Lieuten- 
ant Hinches  as  a  farewell  to  his  sweetheart.  It  is  one  of  the  songs  that 
Burns  picked  up  from  the  old  wives  of  the  countryside. 

Page  171,  LXXV.  FOR  A' THAT. — Written  about  January,  1795. 
"  Is  there  any  one  that,  because  of  honest  poverty,  hangs,  etc." 


Notes 


405 


Page  173,  LXXVI.  JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  Jo. — Burns  took  the  open- 
ing phrase  from  a  very  old  and  worthless  song  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  sentiment  and  poetry  are  his  own. 

Page  174,  LXXVII.  AFTON  WATER. — Afton  is  an  Ayrshire  stream. 
It  is  reported  that  Burns  wrote  the  verses  as  a  tribute  of  gratitude  to 
Mrs.  Stewart  of  Afton  Lodge,' "  for  the  notice  she  had  taken  of  him  — 
the  first  he  had  received  from  one  in  her  rank  of  life." 

Page  176,  LXXIX.  MY  HEART  's  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.  —  Burns  said 
that  the  first  half  stanza  was  from  an  old  song,  the  rest  was  by  himself. 

Page  176,  LXXX.  JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN.  —  The  first  stanza  conies 
from  an  old  ballad,  the  others  were  added  by  Scott. 

Page  178,  LXXXI.  LOCHINVAR.  —  Lady  Heron's  song  in  the  fifth 
canto  of  Marmion.  —  The  Eske  flows  into  Solway.  —  Netherby  is  in  Cum- 
berland. 

Page  185,  LXXXVI.  AULD  LANG  SYNE. —  Burns  himself  said  that 
this  song  was  old.  To  his  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop  he  wrote :  "  Is  not  the  Scots 
phrase  '  Auld  Lang  Syne '  exceedingly  expressive  ?  There  is  an  old  song 
and  tune  which  has  often  thrilled  through  my  soul.  You  know  I  am  an 
enthusiast  on  old  Scot  songs.  I  shall  give  you  the  verses."  He  enclosed  the 
words  of  the  song  as  we  know  it,  and  continued,  "  Light  lie  the  turf  on  the 
breast  of  the  heaven-inspired  poet  who  composed  this  glorious  fragment." 
To  Thomson,  his  publisher,  he  wrote:  "  One  song  more,  and  I  am  done  — 
Auld  Lang  Syne.  The  air  is  but  mediocre ;  but  the  following  song,  the 
old  song  of  the  olden  times,  and  which  has  never  been  in  print,  nor  even 
in  manuscript,  until  I  took  it  down  from  an  old  man's  singing,  is  enough 
to  recommend  any  air."  Fitzgerald  (in  his  Stories  of  Famous  Songs)  adds 
to  this  information  the  following,  that  Sir  Robert  Ayton  (1570-1638),  "a 
friend  of  Ben  Jonson  and  other  Elizabethan  writers,"  wrote  a  poem  in 
which  occurs  this  stanza: 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  thought  upon, 
The  flame  of  love  extinguished 

And  fairly  passed  and  gone? 
Is  thy  kind  heart  now  grown  so  cold, 

In  that  loving  breast  of  thine, 
That  thou  canst  never  once  reflect 
On  old  long  syne? 


406  Poetry  of  the  People 

In  1724  the  poet  Allan  Ramsay  tried  his  hand  at  the  song.  In  an  old  col- 
lection of  1775,  called  the  Caledoniad,  this  Ay  ton  stanza  appears  as  the 
first  of  ten  in  an  Old-Long-Syne — a  love  song  of  no  particular  merit.  And 
it  is  interesting  to  note  that  this  poem  is  preceded  in  the  Caledoniad  by 
one  entitled  "Auld  Kyndness  quite  forget"  the  refrain  of  which  would 
seem  to  have  suggested  "  We  '11  tak  a  cup  of  kindness  yet "  in  the  song 
as  we  now  have  it.  Burns  reshaped  and  vastly  improved  the  first  stanza 
of  the  Ayton  song,  ind  probably  added  the  stanzas  which  now  stand 
second  and  third.  The  old  tune  has  been  abandoned  since  1795.  That 
now  in  use  was  composed  by  William  Shield,  an  Englishman. 


BOOK  FOURTH— POEMS  OF  IRELAND 

Page  188,  LXXXVUL  THE  IRISH  WIFE.  —  "  In  1376  the  Statute  of 
Kilkenny  forbade  the  English  settlers  in  Ireland  to  intermarry  with  the 
Irish  under  pain  of  outlawry.  James,  Earl  of  Desmond,  was  one  of  the 
first  to  violate  this  law.  He  was  an  accomplished  poet."  He  is  therefore 
well  represented  as  the  author  of  these  thrilling  lines.  Thomas  D'Arcy 
McGee,  who  wrote  the  poem,  was  one  of  the  Irish  patriots  of  1848. 

Page  190,  LXXXIX.  DARK  ROSALEEN. —  The  R6;sfn  Dubh  (Roseen 
dhu),  or  little  black  rose,  symbolizes  Ireland.  The  original  of  this  song 
is  in  the  Irish  tongue  and  was  composed  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
about  1601.  "It  purports  to  be  an  allegorical  address  from  the  chieftain, 
Hugh  the  Red  O'Donnell,  to  Ireland  on  the  subject  of  his  love  and 
struggles  for  her,  and  his  resolve  to  free  her  from  the  English  yoke." 
The  date  of  this  address  would  be  about  1601,  when  the  Spaniards  landed 
at  Kinsale  to  help  the  Irish.  It  has  been  translated  by  Thomas  Furlong 
and  by  Aubrey  De  Vere.  Mangan  has  given  it  all  the  passion  of  a  love 
song.  This  poet,  the  most  original  song  writer  of  Ireland,  lived  most 
of  his  life  in  Dublin.  He  vas  for  a  time  associated  with  the  staff  of 
Trinity  College  Library. 

Page  193,  XC.  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BOYNE.  —  With  an  army  of 
Stuart  loyalists  and  Frenchmen  James  II  of  England  had  landed  in 
Ireland,  in  1689,  to  regain  his  throne.  That  year  he  was  defeated  in  an 
attempt  to  take  the  Protestant  town  of  Derry  in  the  north.  During  the 
next  year,  William  of  Orange  and  his  marshal,  the  Duke  of  Schomberg, 
drove  him  down  from  Dundalk,  fifty  miles  from  Dublin,  to  the  southern 


Notes  407 

banks  of  the  river  Boyne,  which  flows  into  Drogheda  Bay  about  twenty 
miles  north  of  Dublin.  William  III  crossed  to  the  attack  at  Old  Bridge. 
Schomberg  fell  as  recounted  in  the  ballad;  but  the  Orange  forces  swept 
clean  the  entrenchments  of  James  and  sent  him  flying  by  the  Pass  of 
Duleek  for  Dublin.  —  Faith's  defender,  Fidei  Defensor,  a  title  bestowed 
by  Pope  Leo  X  upon  Henry  VIII,  in  1521,  and  retained  by  him  as  a 
Protestant,  and  by  his  successors.  Fragments  of  the  original  ballad  of 
the  Boyne  Water  composed  soon  after  the  battle  may  still  be  heard  in 
the  north  of  Ireland,  but  the  version  here  given,  attributed  to  a  certain 
Captain  Bkcker,  is  that  used  by  the  Orangemen  in  their  meetings  at 
the  present  day.  Neither  version  has  any  literary  merit ;  but  the  battle 
was  one  of  the  turning  points  of  British  history.  The  society  of  Irish 
Protestants  called  "  Orangemen,"  which  commemorates  the  event,  is  as 
keenly  interested  in  political  and  religious  affairs  to-day  as  in  1795,  when 
it  was  organized  in  order  to  oppose  the  spread  of  Roman  Catholicism. 

Page  195,  XCI.  AFTER  AUGHRIM.  —  Ginckel,  a  Dutchman,  being 
left  in  command  of  the  English  forces  by  William  III  after  the  battle 
of  the  Boyne,  drove  Sarsfield,  King  James's  general,  out  of  Athlone  and 
back  to  the  bogs  of  Aughrim,  and  defeated  him  there  on  July  12,  1691. 
Soon  after,  Ginckel  and  the  Irish  leader  Sarsfield  met  again  at  Limerick, 
where  the  cause  of  the  Stuarts  was  finally  lost  by  Sarsfield's  defeat. 

Page  196,  XCII.  SHAN  VAN  VOCHT,  or  Poor  Old  Woman,  is  one  of 
the  many  names  under  which  Ireland  has  been  personified  by  those 
of  her  sons  who  would  sever  the  connection  with  England.  This  ballad 
is  an  anonymous  composition  of  the  year  1797  when  the  French  fleet 
arrived  in  Bantry  Bay  to  support  the  uprising  of  the  United  Irishmen. 
The  movement  was  chiefly  for  Catholic  emancipation,  and  one  of  its 
leaders  was  the  well-known  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald.  The  rebellion 
failed  and  Lord  Edward  died  in  prison. 

Page  198,  XCm.  THE  WEARING  OF  THE  GREEN. —  Numerous  ver- 
sions of  this  street  ballad  exist.  That  of  the  text,  however,  is  best 
known.  It  was  introduced  by  Dion  Boucicault  (born  in  Dublin,  1822) 
into  one  of  his  plays  about  1870.  —  Nafper  Tandy,  a  patriot  of  1798. 

Page  200,  XCIV.  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD.  —  The  author  of 
this  stirring  song,  often  called  Ninety-Eight,  was  for  many  years  a 
FeLow,  and  librarian,  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 


408  Poetry  of  the  People 

Page  202,  XCV.    THE  GERALDINES.  —  The  author,  Davis,  was  one 

of  the  most  brilliant  poets  and  political  agitators  of  his  day  in  Ireland. 
He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  became  a  member  of 
the  Irish  bar.  "  There  were  two  distinct  families  known  in  Irish  history 
as  '  the  Goraldines,'  and  both  were  descended  from  Maurice  Fitzgerald, 
one  of  the  Anglo-Normans  who  invaded  Ireland  under  '  Strongbow,'  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  during  1169-1170 — (i)  the  Fitzgeralds  of  Desmond, 
or  South  Munster ;  (2)  the  Fitzgeralds  of  Kildare,  to  whom  the  Duke  of 
Leinster  belongs."  The  descendants  of  these  and  other  Anglo-Norman 
conquerors  became  in  time  more  Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves  — 
largely  because  they  adopted  the  Irish  practice  of  fosterage,  by  which 
the  children  of  the  lord  of  an  estate  were  sent  out  to  nurse  with  the 
family  of  his  native  retainer.  Children  thus  brought  up  naturally  took 
to  the  Irish  customs  of  dress,  of  native  or  Brehon  law,  of  bardic  festivals, 
of  keeping  great  retinues  of  mercenaries  or  kerns.  —  Crom  abu,  the  war 
cry  and  motto  of  the  Geraldines.  —  Maynooth  Castle,  the  Geraldine 
stronghold.  —  Silken  Thomas,  tenth  Earl  of  Kildare,  who,  when  he  heard 
that  Henry  VIII  had  beheaded  his  father,  the  ninth  Earl,  flung  the 
sword  of  state  on  the  council  table  in  contemptuous  defiance  of  the 
king.  Thomas  was  himself  beheaded  in  1537. —  The  sixteenth  Earl  of 
Desmond  lost  his  estates  and  life  by  an  unsuccessful  rebellion  against 
Elizabeth  in  1580.  —  Lord  Edward,  or  the  Sainted  Edward,  the  son  of 
the  first  Duke  of  Leinster  referred  to  in  The  Shan  Van  Vocht.  —  For 
Ginckel  and  Limerick,  see  note  to  After  Aughrim. 

Page  205,  XCVI.  SOGGARTH  AROON.  —  Aroon  (anin),  Irish  for  "be- 
loved "  —  Soggarth,  priest.  —  Banim  was  an  Irish  novelist  and  dramatist. 

Page  207,  XCVn.  THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME  is  an  air  perhaps 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  came  into  general  use  as  the  soldier's  tune 
of  departure  about  1750.  The  words  and  music  are  both  of  Irish  com- 
position. An  English  version  of  later  date  exists,  but  it  lacks  the  ballad 
ring  of  the  Irish  original. 

Page  209,  XCVm.  THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE.  —  Tara,  in  County 
Meath,  near  Dublin,  is  famous  as  a  royal  castle  in  the  early  history  of 
Ireland.  Moore's  Irish  Melodies  were  written  between  1807  and  1834. 

Page  213,  Cin.  THE  COOLUN.  —  Coolun,  the  flowing  love-locks  of  the 
native  Irish  of  earlier  days,  used  here  as  a  term  of  fondness.  —  Colleen,  lass ; 
oge,  young;  bavin,  fair.  The  author  is  perhaps  the  most  thoroughly 


Notes 


409 


Irish  of  the  poets  of  his  country.     He  has  hardly  the  originality,  how- 
ever, of  Mangan. 

Page  214,  CIV.  THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON.  —  The  bells  here  cele- 
brated are  in  the  steeple  of  the  church  of  St.  Anne,  or  Upper  Shandon, 
in  Cork.  The  lyric  was  published  in  1834.  The  Reverend  Francis 
Mahony  is  better  known  under  the  pen  name  of  Father  Prout. 

Page  215,  CV.  KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN.  —  The  words  by  (Mrs.) 
Julia  Crawford,  a  native  of  County  Cavan.  They  were  first  published 
between  1830  and  1840,  in  the  Metropolitan  Magazine ;  and  were  soon 
afterwards  set  to  music  by  Frederick  Nicholls  Crouch. 

Page  216,  CVI.  THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT.  —  Helena 
Selina  Blackwood,  Lady  Dufferin,  was  one  of  the  three  brilliant  grand- 
daughters of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  She  was  the  mother  of  the 
famous  Marquis  of  Dufferin,  recently  deceased.  This  tender  idyllic 
ballad  was  published  about  1838. 

Page  218,  CVII.  DEAR  LAND.  —  The  rousing  songs  which  appeared 
in  The  Nation,  an  Irish  newspaper,  over  the  name  of  Sliabh  Cuilinn, 
have  with  some  degree  of  probability  been  attributed  to  John  O'Hagan,  a 
distinguished  Irish  jurist,  who  was  born  in  1822. 

Page  223,  CX.  —  SONG  FROM  THE  BACKWOODS.  —  Written  in  1857. 
The  author  has  been  for  years  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Irish  news- 
paper, The  Nation. 


BOOK  FIFTH—  POEMS  OF  AMERICA 

Page  236,  CXVH.  CONCORD  HYMN. —  On  the  night  of  April  18, 1775, 
eight  hundred  British  regulars  were  secretly  dispatched  from  Boston  to 
arrest  Samuel  Adams  and  John  Hancock  at  Lexington,  and  to  seize  the 
military  stores  collected  at  Concord.  The  vigilant  patriots,  however, 
had  discovered  the  secret  and  were  on  the  alert,  and  when  the  expedition 
moved  to  cross  the  Charles  River,  Paul  Revere,  one  of  the  most  active  of 
the  Sons  of  Liberty  in  Boston,  had  preceded  them  and  was  on  his  way 
toward  Concord  to  arouse  the  inhabitants  and  the  minute-men.  Soon 
after  church  bells,  musketry,  and  cannon  spread  the  news  over  the  coun- 
try ;  and  when,  at  dawn,  April  19,  the  British  arrived  at  Lexington  they 


410  Poetry  of  the  People 

found  seventy  minute-men  drawn  up  on  the  village  green  to  oppose  them, 
The  advance  guard  under  Major  Pitcairn  fired  upon  them,  but  they  held 
their  ground  until  the  main  body  of  the  British  appeared.  Then  they 
gave  way  and  the  regulars  pushed  forward  to  Concord.  Here  they  were 
unable  to  discover  any  military  stores,  and  while  they  were  committing 
some  depredations  affairs  took  a  sudden  turn.  Two  hundred  regulars 
who  guarded  the  Concord  bridge  were  routed  by  some  four  hundred 
minute-men  who  had  hastily  collected  from  neighboring  towns.  The 
position  of  the  British  thus  became  perilous.  About  noon  they  started 
for  Boston,  subjected  to  a  galling  fire  from  all  sides.  Exhausted  by 
their  long  march  they  fell  into  a  disorderly  flight  and  were  saved  only  by 
the  timely  assistance  of  Lord  Percy,  who  came  from  Boston  with  ree'n- 
forcements.  Seven  miles  from  Boston  their  passage  was  again  disputed 
by  a  force  of  militia.  The  whole  countryside  was  out  against  them; 
once  more  their  retreat  became  a  rout,  and  at  sunset  they  entered 
Charlestown  under  the  welcome  protection  of  the  fleet,  on  the  full  run, 
just  in  time  to  avoid  an  encounter  with  Colonel  Pickering  and  seven  hun- 
dred Essex  militia.  The  loss  of  the  British  was  two  hundred  and 
seventy-three;  that  of  the  Americans  about  one-third  that  number. 
The  battle  showed  that  the  colonists  could  not  be  frightened  into  sub- 
mission. —  From  Jameson.  This  hymn  was  sung  at  the  completion  of  the 
Battle  Monument,  April  19,  1836,  on  the  occasion  of  the  anniversary  of 
the  battle  of  Lexington. 

Page  238,  CXIX.  THE  MARYLAND  BATTALION.  —  This  poem  has 
reference  to  the  battle  of  Long  Island,  August  27,  1776,  won  by  the 
British,  under  Howe,  Clinton,  Percy,  Cornwallis,  and  Grant,  with  the 
Hessians  under  von  Heister,  over  the  Americans  commanded  by  William 
Alexander  (known  as  Lord  Stirling),  Sullivan,  and  Putnam.  See  Fiske's 
American  Revolution,  1 :  207. — Macaroni  was  used  for  an  exquisitely 
dressed  person  a  century  and  more  before  the  Revolution. 

Page  240, CXX.  COLUMBIA,  ETC.  —  The  author,  who  was  later  Presi- 
dent of  Yale  College,  was  a  chapkin  in  the  Revolutionary  army  when  he 
wrote  this  prophetic  poem, 

Page  241,  CXXI.  MARION'S  MEN.  —  A  brigade  organized  by 
Francis  Marion  (b.  1732,  d.  1795),  an  American  Revolutionary  general. 
It  was  noted  for  the  celerity  of  its  movements  and  the  sudden  fierceness 
of  its  attacks.  Marion  operated  from  his  swamp  fastnesses  on  the  Pedee 
and  Santee  rivers,  whence  he  led  or  sent  out  expeditions  against  the 
British  which  accomplished  marvelous  results. 


Notes  4I  i 

Page  244,  CXXII.  EUTAW  SPRINGS. — On  September  8, 1781,  General 
Greene  commanding  the  American  forces  attacked  the  British  under 
Colonel  Stuart  at  Eutaw  Springs,  a  place  about  fifty  miles  from  Charles- 
ton, South  Carolina,  on  the  Santee.  There  were  two  brief  actions.  In 
the  first  the  British  line  was  broken  and  driven  from  the  field.  In  the 
second  Stuart  succeeded  in  forming  a  new  line,  supported  by  a  brick 
house,  and  from  this  position  Greene  was  unable  to  drive  him.  The 
total  American  loss  was  five  hundred  and  fifty-four;  that  of  the  British 
about  one  thousand. 

Page  245,  CXXIII.  CARMEN  BELLICOSUM.  —  Old  Continentals,  the 
American  Revolutionary  soldiers.  —  Grenadiers,  the  English  forces.  — 
Unicorn,  the  sinister  supporter  of  the  arms  of  England. 

Page  249,  CXXVI.  HAIL,  COLUMBIA.  —  Written  in  1798  to  the  tune 
of  "  The  President's  March."  Intense  feeling  was  rife  in  America  at 
that  time  with  respect  to  the  war  then  raging  between  France  and  Eng- 
land. The  famous  ode,  sung  first  at  the  benefit  performance  of  a  Phila- 
delphia actor,  was  composed  with  the  object  of  inspiring  in  the  hostile 
factions  a  patriotism  which  should  transcend  the  bitterness  of  party 
feeling.  —  Stedman. 

Page  254,  CXXVin.  "  OLD  IRONSIDES." — The  popular  name  of  the 
frigate  Constitution,  the  most  celebrated  vessel  in  the  United  States 
navy.  She  was  built  in  Boston  in  1797,  and  during  the  War  of  1812  ren- 
dered glorious  service  to  the  nation.  Her  victory  over  the  English 
frigate  Guerrilre  "  raised  the  United  States  in  one  half  hour  to  the  rank 
of  a  first-class  naval  power.''  In  1830  the  Navy  Department  deeming 
the  Constitution  no  longer  useful  ordered  her  broken  up  and  sold.  This 
order  met  with  so  much  popular  opposition  that  it  was  abandoned.  Dr. 
Holmes's  poetic  protest  did  much  to  create  and  call  forth  the  public 
sentiment  against  it. 

Page  256,  CXXX.  THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER.  —  Written 
during  the  bombardment  of  Fort  McHenry  by  the  British  fleet,  the 
author  being  at  the  time  detained  on  board  one  of  the  British  ships. 

Page  259,  CXXXH.  THE  AMERICAN  FLAG.  — To  this  poem  of 
Drake's,  which  has  become  a  national  classic,  Halleck  is  said  to  have 
added  the  closing  quatrain. 

Page  262,  CXXXIV.  THE  DEFENCE  OF  THE  ALAMO.  —  The  Alamo 
was  a  fort  at  San  Antonio,  Texas,  made  memorable  by  the  heroic 


412  Poetry  of  the  People 

defense  of  its  little  garrison  in  1836,  during  the  war  of  Texan  Inde- 
pendence. A  force  of  one  hundred  and  forty  Texans  withstood  for  two 
weeks  an  army  of  nearly  four  thousand  Mexicans  under  Santa  Ana. 
Finally,  after  a  desperate  defense,  the  fort  was  taken  by  assault,  March  6. 
Of  its  defenders  only  six  remained  alive,  and  these,  including  the  famous 
Davy  Crockett,  were  immediately  butchered  by  order  of  the  Mexican 
general. 

Page  263,  CXXXV.  THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD.  —  This  poem 
commemorates  the  Kentuckians  who  fell  at  Buena  Vista,  February 
22-23,  1847. 

Page  268,  CXXXVn.  BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. —  This 
hymn  "  will  last  as  long  as  the  Civil  War  is  remembered  in  history.  It 
was  written  in  1861,  after  the  author's  observing,  in  the  camps  near 
Washington,  the  marching  of  the  enthusiastic  young  soldiers  to  the  song 
John  Brown's  Body.  Mrs.  Howe's  words  were  at  once  adopted  and 
sung  throughout  the  North."  —  Stedman. 

Page  271,  CXL.  THE  "CUMBERLAND."  —  A  Federal  sloop  of  war 
(Lieutenant  George  U.  Morris  commander)  sunk  by  the  Confederate 
ram  Merrimac  in  Hampton  Roads,  March  8,  1862,  after  making  a 
most  heroic  defense  in  an  unequal  contest.  She  went  down  with  all 
on  board,  and  colors  flying. 

Page  277,  CXLIH.  VICKSBURG.  A  position  most  important  for  the 
Confederacy  to  hold.  It  was  unsuccessfully  attacked  by  Sherman  in 
1862.  Grant  began  to  advance  upon  it  in  April  of  the  next  year,  and  took 
it  after  desperate  assaults  on  July  4. 

Page  279,  CXLIV.  KEENAN'S  CHARGE.  In  the  battle  of  Chancellors- 
ville,  where  Lee  defeated  the  Union  forces  under  Hooker,  May  2-4,  1863. 

Page  294,  CL.  SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. —  "A  famous  incident  of  the 
battle  of  Cedar  Creek,  Virginia,  October  19,  1864.  Sheridan's  army, 
which  was  encamped  on  Cedar  Creek  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  was 
surprised  before  daybreak  and  defeated  by  the  Confederates  under 
General  Early.  Sheridan,  who  was  at  Winchester,  twenty  miles  from 
the  field,  on  his  return  from  a  visit  to  Washington,  heard  the  sound  of 
battle  and  rode  rapidly  to  the  scene  of  action.  As  he  galloped  past  the 
retreating  soldiers,  he  shouted,  '  Face  the  other  way,  boys !  We  are 
going  back ! '  He  re-formed  his  corps,  and  before  the  close  of  the  day 
had  gained  a  decisive  victory."  —  Century  Cyclopedia. 


Notes  413 

Page  300,  CLIII.  DIXIE. —  The  most  famous  Southern  war  song. 
There  is  another  and  more  popular  Civil  War  ballad  called  Dixie, 
beginning 

I  wish  I  was  in  de  land  of  cotton,  old  times  dar  are  not  forgotten, 

which  was  composed  in  1859  by  D.  D.  Emmett.  —  Dixie,  a  collective 
designation  for  the  Southern  states. 

Page3O2,CLIV.  MY  MARYLAND.  —  One  of  the  most  popular  Southern 
war  songs.  It  has  been  called  the  Marseillaise  of  the  Confederate  cause. 

Page- 305,  CLV.  THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG.  —  Assigned  variously, 
to  H.  McCarthy,  to  (Mrs.)  Annie  Chambers  Ketchum,  and  to  Alexander 
White  of  Birmingham,  Alabama  Definite  information  will  be  welcomed 
by  the  editors. 

Page  310,  CLVm.  THE  CONQUERED  BANNER.  —  Written  soon  after 
the  surrender  of  Lee. 

Page  318,  CLXTV.  THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY.  —  This  poem,  which 
has  now  become  a  national  classic,  was  inspired  by  the  fact  that  the 
women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  on  their  Decoration  Day  placed 
flowers  on  the  graves  of  Northern  and  Southern  soldiers  alike. 

Page  340,  CLXXX.  YANKEE  DOODLE.  —  We  find  the  following  in 
Our  Familiar  Songs.  "  The  air  of  '  Yankee  Doodle '  is  claimed  by  sev- 
eral nations.  It  is  said  to  be  an  old  vintage  song  in  the  south  of  France. 
In  Holland,  when  the  laborers  received  for  wages  '  as  much  buttermilk 
as  they  could  drink  and  a  tenth  of  the  grain,'  they  used  to  sing  as  they 
reaped,  to  the  tune  of  '  Yankee  Doodle,'  the  words : 

Yanker  dudel,  doodle  down,  etc. 

The  tune  was  sung  in  England  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I  to  a  rhyme 
which  is  still  alive  in  our  nurseries: 

Lucy  Locket  lost  her  pocket, 

Kitty  Fisher  found  it  — 
Nothing  in  it,  nothing  on  it, 

But  the  binding  round  it. 

The  words,  supposed  to  be  said  by  a  green  New  Englander,  would  natu- 
rally catch  the  fancy  of  the  British  soldiers.  Later  on,  the  revolutionists- 
adopted  the  tune  in  derision  of  their  deriders.  The  tune  first  appeared 
in  this  country  in  June,  1775.  The  words  are  ascribed  to  Dr.  Richard 


414  Poetry  of  the  People 

Shuckburg,  a  British  regimental  surgeon.  He  was  '  mightily  amused ' 
at  the  uncouth  appearance  of  the  Colonial  troops  in  their  tattered  uni- 
forms and  with  their  antique  equipments.  He  planned  a  joke  upon  the 
instant.  He  set  down  the  notes  of  '  Yankee  Doodle,'  wrote  underneath 
them  this  lively  adaptation  of  a  Cromwellian  verse,  and  gave  it  to  the 
band.  For  during  the  English  Civil  War  a  similar  song  had  been  sung 
by  the  Cavaliers  in  ridicule  of  Cromwell,  who  was  said  to  have  ridden 
into  Oxford  on  a  small  horse,  with  his  single  plume  fastened  into  a 
sort  of  knot,  which  was  derisively  called  a  '  macaroni.'  The  words  were: 

Yankee  doodle  came  to  town, 

Upon  a  Kentish  pony  ; 
He  stuck  a  feather  in  his  cap, 

Upon  a  macaroni." 

This  use  of  "  macaroni  "  might  have  been  suggested  by  the  resemblance 
of  the  cap-knot  to  a  macaroon,  for  that  word  was  used  to  mean  a  small 
sweet  cake  as  early  as  1610.  It  is,  however,  possible  that  the  original 
line  ran  "  And  called  it  macaroni,"  for  the  poet  Donne  uses  the  word 
"  macaroon  "  or  "  macaroni "  for  a  foppishly  dressed  person  in  1650. 

Page  342,  CLXXXI.  NATHAN  HALE.  —  The  hero  was  a  school 
teacher.  At  Washington's  request  he  undertook  to  act  as  a  spy.  His 
heroic  death  was  a  spiritual  assistance  to  the  revolutionists.  See  Tyler's 
Literary  History  of  the  Revolution. 

Page  354,  CXC.  DIXIE'S  LAND. — A  version  of  the  original  ballad 
as  composed  to  his  own  inspiring  music  by  Daniel  Decatur  Emmett  in 
1859.  Variations  are,  however,  handed  down ;  as,  for  instance,  for  the 
second  line  of  the  first  stanza, 

Cimmon  seed  and  sandy  bottom ; 
and  after  "  Look  away  !  "  in  the  fourth  stanza, 

Will  run  away  —  Missus  took  a  decline,  oh, 
Her  face  was  de  color  ob  bacon-rine  —  oh; 

and  instead  of  "  Ole  Missus  acted  de  foolish  part,"  etc., 

How  could  she  act  such  a  foolish  part, 
As  marry  a  man  dat  break  her  heart? 

and  at  the  opening  of  the  sixth  stanza, 

Sugar  in  de  gourd  and  stonny  batter, 
De  whites  grow  fat  and  de  niggers  fatter. 


GLOSSARY 


a,  a',  all. 

abone,  aboon,  above. 
aften,  often. 
ain,  own. 
tine,  one. 
•znither,  another. 
pros,  arrows. 
fiva',  away. 
ayont,  beyond. 

tackit,  backed,  dressed. 

laitk,  both. 

talys  bete,  remedy  our  evils. 

landsters,  binders. 

tannet,  bonnet,  cap. 

bar,  bore,  carried. 

barkened,  hardened. 

barne,  berne,  a  man. 

basnites,  helmets. 

ba.uk,  crossbeam. 

beld,  bald. 

bent,  open  grassy  place,  field. 

bi  (be),  by. 

biek,  to  bask ;  to  biek  forenent  the 

sin,  to  bake  against  (in  the  rays 

of)  the  sun  (Gummere). 
bigget,  builded. 
bigonet,  a  cap  of  silk  or  other  cloth 

stuff,  a  mutch. 
bigs,  builds. 
bilbows,  swords,  the  best  of  which 

were  made  in  Bilboa  in  Spain. 


fork,  birch. 

birkie,  a  smart-appearing,  conceited 

youth. 

Wane,  halted. 
blawn,  blown. 
bluart,  bilberry. 
blyve,  quickly. 
bogles,  ghosts. 
lomen,  bowmen. 
bonnets,  in  the  Scotch,  caps. 
bow,    bow   window,    bay    window 

(Montr ose). 
boys,  bcrwys,  bows. 
bracken,  fern. 
brae,  slopes. 
braid,  broad. 
braid  letter,  an   open   or   patent 

letter,  a  public  document. 
brande,  sword. 
branking,  prancing. 
brow,  handsome. 
brent,  brente,  burnt. 
brent,  smooth,  unwrinkled. 
bristit,  breasted. 
broad  pieces,  gold  coins. 
broo,  broth. 
brook,  enjoy,  tolerate. 
bryttlynge,  the  cutting,  or,  literally. 

the  breaking  up. 
bugelet,  a  small  bugle. 
bughts,  a  place  for  milking  ewes. 
burd,  young  woman,  lady. 


415 


416 


Poetry  of  the  People 


burn,  brook,  stream. 

burn-brae,  "  the  acclivity  at  the 
bottom  of  which  a  rivulet  runs." 

burrows-town,  borough  town,  cor- 
porate town. 

biiskit,  make  ready;  busk  and 
boun,  up  and  away. 

but  an,  unless. 

but  and,  and  also. 

byckarte,  skirmished. 

byddys,  abides,  remains. 

byears,  biers. 

bylle,  bill,  a  battle-ax. 

byre,  cow  house,  stable. 

caller,  fresh. 

cant,  came. 

canty,  jolly. 

carles,  churls,  low  fellows. 

carline  -wife,  old  peasant  woman. 

cast,  intend. 

catches,  songs. 

caubeen,  hat  (Irish). 

cauld,  cold. 

channerin,  fretting. 

chays,  chase,  hunting  ground. 

clamb,  climbed. 

close-heads,  to,  together. 

cloth-yard,    an    old    measure    of 

twenty-seven  inches. 
cole,  cowl. 
coof,  fool. 
corbies,  ravens. 
cars,  curse. 
coud,  knew. 
cowthie,  kindly. 
curragh,  a  plain  (Irish). 

doffing,  joking. 
daw,  to  dawn. 


dee,  die. 

dcid,  deed;  dead. 

departed  it,  divided  it. 

dight,  handle  (Otterbourne). 

dighted,  dressed. 

dine,  dinner  time. 

ding,  beat. 

Don,  the  Spanish  for  Mr. 

donne,  dun. 

dool,  dole,  grief. 

doops,  drops. 

doun,  down. 

dowie,  sad. 

downa,  cannot 

dre,  endure. 

dree,  suffer. 

drumly,  dark,  gloomy. 

dule,  pain. 

dyghtande,  made  ready 

dynte,  a  blow. 

ee,  eye ;  een,  eyes. 
eldern,  elderly. 
everych,  every. 

fa1,  fall. 

fa'  (in  Burns's  For  a1  that),  claim,  tr 

fail,  turf. 

fare,  doings. 

fashes,  troubles,  storms. 

fauld,fauldit,  fold,  folded. 

fause,  false. 

fay,  oath,  loyalty. 

faylyd  of,  missed. 

feale,  fail. 

fee,  pay,  money,  property. ' 

fend,  sustain. 

feth,  faith. 

fiere,  friend,  comrade. 

//,  foot. 

fit,fytte,  division  of  a  ballad. 


Glossary 


417 


flecking,    shadow   with    flecks   of 

sunshine. 

fleeching,  coaxing,  flattering. 
flyting,  jeering. 
forenent,  in  the  face  of. 
fostere,  forester. 
frae,  from. 
freits,  ill  omens. 
frere,  friar. 
freyke,  man,  warrior. 
fu,  full. 

ga,  gae,  to  go. 
galleon,  a  large  ship. 
galliard,  a  merry  dance. 
gang,  go. 
gar,  make. 
gie,  gi'ed,  give,  gave. 
gin,  if. 

glacis,  a  sloping  bank  used  in  for- 
tification. 

glcde,  a  glowing  coaL 
glent,  flashed. 
goun,  gown. 
govian,  the  daisy. 
goivd,  gold. 
gramercy,  thanks. 
gree,  prize. 
greet,  weep. 
grevis,  groves. 
guid,  gude,  good. 
gullies,  knives. 

hae,  have. 

halfendell,  in  two  parts. 

Halidom,  all  that  is  holy;  sacred 

honor. 

halke,  corner. 
halyde,  pulled,  hauled. 
hame,  home. 


hamely,  homely. 

harried,  plundered. 

hand,  hold. 

kaugh,  flat  ground  on  the  border 
of  a  river. 

hauld,  shelter,  stronghold. 

hause,  neck. 

heal,  haiL 

hede,  heed. 

hewmont,  helmet. 

Hielanders,  Highlanders. 

flight,  promise. 

hilly s,  hills. 

hinde,  gentle. 

hirsels,  flocks  of  sheep. 

hodden,  wool  "  holden  "  in  its  natu- 
ral gray  color. 

horn,  them. 

idyght,  prepared. 
ilka,  every. 
iwys,  surely. 

jauds,  jades. 
jimp,  slender,  neat. 
jo,  sweetheart. 

kale,  broth. 

kerns,  combs. 

ken,  know. 

kye,  cows  (the  herd  of  cows). 

laith,  loath. 

Lammas-tide,  the  first  of  August 

lane  (her  lane),  alone. 

lanely,  lonely. 

lang,  long. 

lauch,  laugh. 

lave,  rest. 

laverock,  lark. 


4i8 


Poetry  of  the  People 


lede,  train. 

ledesman,  guide. 

leglin,  milk-pail. 

lemons,  sweethearts. 

lends,  tarry. 

lese,  lose. 

let,  prevent 

levin,  lightning. 

Heard  (Hard),  gray. 

lift,  heavens. 

light,  alighted. 

//'//,  tune. 

lin,  pause. 

list,  inclination,  desire. 

loaning,  a  broad  lane  for  milking. 

lock,  look. 

long  hafted,  long  shafted. 

loot,  let. 

lowe,  blaze. 

lyff-tenant,  lieutenant. 

lyndes,  lindens,  trees  in  general. 

magger,  mauger;  in  the  m agger 
of,  in  spite  of. 

maiden  knight,  i.e.,  in  his  first  battle. 

main,  the  sea.(Agin.,  st.  i,  Revenge, 
st.  14);  the  main  division  (Agin., 
st.  7). 

mair,  more. 

maist,  most;  almost  (Woe's  Me 
for  Prince  Charlie). 

makys,  mates. 

male,  mail,  armor. 

male-horse,  pack  horse. 

march-parti,  border  side. 

mare,  more. 

Martinmas,  the  eleventh  of  No- 
vember. 

maun,  must 

manna,  must  not 


mavis,  thrush. 
meany,  company. 
measure,  sometimes  a  dance. 
meikle,  mickle,  muckle,  great 
merkes,  targets. 
mo,  more. 
monie,  many. 
morne,  morrow. 
mote,  may. 
muirmen,  moormen. 
myllan,  Milan  steel. 
myneyeple,    a    gauntlet    covering 
hand  and  forearm. 

na,  not.  , 

nane,  none. 
neist,  next. 
noo,  now. 
nourice,  nurse. 

o',  of,  on. 

overcome,  refrain. 

on,  of,  in. 

on,  one. 

Orange,  see  notes  on  Battle  of  the 

Boyne. 

oware  off  none,  hour  of  noon. 
owre,  or,  before. 
ow re,  over. 

paidPt,  paddled. 

pallions,  tents. 

parti,  side;    uppone  a  parti,  on 

one  side. 
passe,  limits. 
pat,  pot. 

pa-wkie,  sly,  artful. 
pelting,  paltry,  petty. 
pibroch,  a  kind  of  martial  music 

performed  upon  the  bagpipe. 


Glossary 


419 


pike,  a  kind  of  spear. 

pint-sto-wp,  pint  vessel. 

plat,  intertwined. 

pleugh,  plough. 

paw,  poll,  head. 

protocol,  a  first  draft  of  a  treaty 

or  other  such  dispatch. 
pit1,  pull. 
pyke,  pick. 
pyne,  pains. 

quyrry,      quarry,      slaughtered 

game. 
quyte,  avenged. 

rade,  rode. 
rashes,  rushes. 
rax,  reach. 
reas,  rouse. 
red,  read. 
reek,  smoke. 
richt,  right. 
riving,  tearing. 
row,  roll. 
^tinkled,  wrinkled. 

sae,  so. 
soft,  soft, 
j'a//,  shall. 
sare,  sair,  sore. 
sang,  song. 
scaur,  a  rocky  steep, 
se,  sea. 
se,  see,  saw. 
seased,  seized. 
semblyde,  assembled 
sent  I  me,  I  assent. 
set,  struck  upon,  hit. 
shard,   used   by   Kipling   for   the 
armor  of  a  battle  ship. 


shear,  several,  separate. 

shente,  injured. 

shete,  shoot. 

sheugh,  ditch,  furrow. 

shyars,  shires. 

sic,  such. 

simmer,  summer. 

sin,  sun. 

sin',  since. 

sithe,  sith,  since. 

slaes,  sloes. 

slee,  sly,  or  shy. 

slogan,  war  cry. 

slotigke,  slew. 

sma',  small. 

snau',  snow. 

somers,  sumpters. 

span,  rope  (Montrose). 

spendyd,  grasped. 

sprente,  sprang,  spouted. 

spume,  trouble. 

starn,  star. 

staiv,  stole. 

stede,  place. 

sterne,  bold  ones. 

sterte,  started. 

stour,  conflict,  press  of  battle. 

strath,    a    valley    with    a    river 

in  it. 

stynttyde,  stopped. 
suflr,  sure. 
suner,  sooner. 
swakkit,  smote. 
swankie,  a  gay  lad. 
sivapte,  smote,  slashed. 
syke,  marsh. 
syne,  since. 

takyll,  arrow,  tackle. 
fane,  one. 


420 


Poetry  of  the  People 


targe,    shield,   buckler   (in   Robin 

Hood  and  the  King,  probably 

coat  of  arms,  seal). 
target,  often  a  shield. 
tartan,  a  Scotch  plaid. 
teenfu,  sorrowful. 
thae,  those. 
the,  they. 
theekit,  thatched. 
thegither,  together. 
thirled,  pierced. 
thorowe,  through. 
thraw,  wring. 
thyder,  thither. 
till,  to. 
tocke,  took. 
ton,  one. 

tothar,  father,  other. 
toun,   toune,  towne,   often    means 

simply  an  enclosed  or  fortified 

place. 
trystell-tre,  trysting  tree,  meeting 

place. 
twa,  two. 
tydynge,  news. 
tyne,  forfeit. 

unneth,  scarcely. 
untyll,  unto. 

vaward,  vanguard. 
verament,  truly. 

•wo1,  wall. 

wade,  gone,  passed. 

wae,  woe ;  woe  worth  ye,  woe  be  to 

you. 

wane,  a  great  number,  multitude. 
ware,  aware. 


war  gangs,  wagons. 

wark,  work. 

wat,  wot,  know. 

waught,  draught. 

wauken,  waken. 

waur,  worse. 

weal,  clench,  clasp. 

weather,  the  withers. 

wede,  array,  garb. 

wede,  weeded  (Flowers  of theForest), 

weel,  well. 

weir1,  weird,  fate. 

welt,  controlled. 

wende,  go. 

wende,  thought. 

wha,  who. 

ivhatn,  whom. 

whaur,  where. 

w f,  with. 

•wichty,  sturdy. 

•willie,  willing. 

wouche,  damage,  injury. 

•wroken,  avenged. 

wude,  mad. 

wyght,  active. 

wyld,  wild  deer  (Cheviot,  6-1). 

wyste,  knew. 

wystly,  carefully 

yede,  went. 

ye-feth,  in  faith. 

yemen,  yeomen. 

yenough,  enough. 

yerle,  earl. 

yew,  the  Spanish  wood  best  fitted 

for  bows. 
ylke,  same. 
yowes,  ewes. 
yth,  in  the. 


INDEX    OF  AUTHORS  AND    POEMS 


PAGE 

Albee,  John  (1833-1915) 

A  Soldier's  Grave    .                 314 

Arnold,  Matthew  (1822-1888) 

Memorial  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Wordsworth     .        .        .  102 

Austin,  Alfred  (1835-1913) 

Sons  of  the  Self-Same  Race 388 

Anonymous,  or  of  uncertain  authorship 

Barbara  Allen 128 

Both  Worshipped  the  Same  Great  Name       ....  378 

God  Save  the  King 65 

John  Brown's  Body          .         .         . 267 

Marching  through  Georgia 293 

Nathan  Hale 342 

Older  Ballads  (see  Contents) 

The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington 129 

The  Battle  of  the  Boyne  (perhaps  by  Blacker)       .        .        .193 

The  Blue  Bell  of  Scotland 165 

The  Bonnie  Banks  o'  Loch  Lomond 183 

The  British  Grenadiers 87 

The  Campbells  are  Comin' 164 

The  Girl  I  Left  behind  Me 207 

The  Shan  Van  Vocht .        .196 

The  Vicar  of  Bray .138 

The  Warship  of  1812 255 

The  Wearing  of  the  Green  (Boucicault's  version)          .         .  198 

Yankee  Doodle 340 

You  Gentlemen  of  England 134 

Asaf,  George 

Pack  up  your  Troubles  in  your  Old  Kit-bag            .         .         .  385 

Aytoun,  William  Edmonstoune  (1813-1865) 

The  Execution  of  Montrose 150 

The  Old  Scottish  Cavalier 159 

421 


422  Poetry  of  the  People 

PAGE 

Banim,  John  (1798-1842) 

Soggarth  Aroon 205 

Beattie,  James  (see  under  Mickle) 

Beers,  Ethelinda  (1827-1879) 

All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac 344 

Bell,  Robert  Howry  (1860-) 

For  Cuba 328 

Bennett,  Henry  Holcomb  (1863-) 

The  Flag  Goes  By 336 

Boker,  George  Henry  (1823-1890) 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier          ........    313 

Bourinot;  Lieutenant  Arthur  (1893-) 

Immortality 383 

Braley,  Berton  (1882-) 

Heroes 379 

Brooke,  Rupert  (1887-1915) 

The  Soldier 369 

Brooks,  Charles  Timothy  (1813-1883), and  DwightJ.S.  (1813-1893) 

God  Bless  our  Native  Land 261 

Browning,  Robert  (1812-1889) 

Give  a  Rouse 80 

The  Lost  Leader 101 

Bryan,  A.,  and  Weston,  W. 

Joan  of  Arc 386 

Bryant,  William  Cullen  (1794-1878) 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 241 

Abraham  Lincoln 320 

Burns,  Robert  (1759-1796) 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 171 

Afton  Water 174 

Auld  Lang  Syne      .  185 

Bannockburn 144 

For  a' that,  and  a' that 171 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo 173 

My  Heart 's  in  the  Highlands 176 

Ye  Banks  and  Braes 175 

Butterworth,  Hezekiah  (1839-1905) 

The  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor 233 

Byron,  George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  (1788-1824) 

The  Field  of  Waterloo    .  98 


Index  of  Authors  and  Poems  423 


"  C.  A.  A." 

The  School  at  War 365 

Campbell,  Thomas  (1777-1844) 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 90 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 93 

Carey,  Henry  *d.  1743),  probable  author  of 

God  Save  the  King 65 

Sally  in  our  Alley  .  . 136 

Carryl,  Guy  Wetmore  (1873-) 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In 337 

Cherry,  Andrew  (1762-1812) 

The  Green  Little  Shamrock  of  Ireland 187 

Clarke,  Joseph  I.  C.  (1846-) 

The  Fighting  Race          .        .        .        .        .        .-'       .        .     332 

Cohan,  George  M.  (1878-) 

Over  There 386 

Collins,  William  (1721-1759) 

Ode,  Written  in  the  Year  1746  (from  Odes  on  Several  Subjects)  90 
Crawford,  Charlotte  Holmes 

Vive  la  France         .........    360 

Crawford,  Julia  (c.  1800-1850) 

Kathleen  Mavourneen 215 

Cunningham,  Allan  (1784-1842) 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 141 

Davis,  Thomas  Osborne  (1814-1845) 

The  Geraldines       .........    202 

Davis,  B.,  and  Reisner,  C.  F. 

Good-bye  Broadway !  Hello  France ! 386 

Dibdin,  Charles  (1745-1814) 

Poor  Tom  Bowling 142 

Dobson,  Henry  Austin  (1840-) 

A  Ballad  of  Heroes iii 

Douglas,  William,  of  Fingland  (and  Lady  John  Scott) 

Annie  Laurie  (c.  1700) 166 

Doyle,  Sir  Francis  Hastings  (1810-1888) 

The  Loss  of  the  "  Birkenhead  " 114 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman  (1795-1820) 

The  American  Flag 259 

Drayton,  Michael  (1563-1631) 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt 70 


424  Poetry  of  the  People 

PAGE 

Dufferin,  Helena  Selina  Blackwood,  Lady  (1807-1867) 

The  Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant 216 

O  Bay  of  Dublin 220 

Dwight,  Timothy  (1752-1817) 

"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  Glory  Arise  "  ....  240 
Elliot,  Jane  (1727-1805) 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest ;  or,  The  Battle  of  Floden.  Part  1 .  146 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo  (1803-1882) 

Concord  Hymn 236 

Emmett,  Daniel  Decatur  (1815-1904) 

Dixie's  Land 354 

English,  Thomas  Dunn  (1819-1902) 

Ben  Bolt 349 

Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel  (1810-1886) 

The  Coolun 213 

Finch,  Francis  Miles  (1827-1907) 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray 318 

Ford,  Lena  Guilbert 

Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning      ...        ...    384 

Foster,  Stephen  Collins  (1826-1864) 

Massa  's  in  de  Cold  Ground 352 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home        •        .        .        .  '     .        .        .    351 

Old  Folks  at  Home 353 

Freneau,  Philip  (1752-1832) 

Eutaw  Springs 244 

Geoghegan,  Arthur  Gerald  (1809-1889) 

After  Aughrim 195 

Gibbons,  James  Sloane  (1810-1892) 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More  .  .  .  .  •  .  .288 
Gilder,  Joseph  B.  (1858-) 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways „  339 

Glen,  William  (d.  1824),  probable  author  of 

Wae  's  Me  for  Prince  Charlie  .  .  =  .  .  .  163 
Harte,  Francis  Bret  (1839-1902) 

The  Reveille 270 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton  (1830-1886) 

Vicksburg 277 

Hemans,  Felicia  (1/93-1835) 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 23o> 


425 

PAGE 

Hogg,  James  (1770-1835) 

The  Lament  of  Flora  Macdonald 162 

When  the  Kye  Comes  Hame 180 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  (1809-1894) 

"Old  Ironsides" 254 

Hopkinson,  Joseph  (1770-1842) 

Hail,  Columbia 249 

Howe,  Julia  Ward  (1819-1910) 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic 268 

Ingram,  John  Kells  (c.  1827-1907) 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead  (or,  Ninety-Eight)         .        .        .    200 
Jephson,  Lina 

In  England  Now 

Johnson,  Howard,  and  Wenrich,  Percy 

Where  Do  We  Go  from  Here 

Jonson,  Ben  (1573-1637) 

To  Celia 

Judge,  Jack,  and  Williams,  Harry 

It's  a  Long,  Long  Way  to  Tipperary     .... 
Key,  Francis  Scott  (1780-1843) 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner 

King,  Stoddard 

There 's  a  Long,  Long  Trail 

Kipling,  Rudyard  (1865-) 

Recessional     ......... 

Kittredge,  Walter  (1832-) 

Tenting  on  the  Old  Camp  Ground         .... 
"  Klaxon  " 

America  Comes  In 

Lathrop,  George  Parsons  (1851-1898) 

Keenan's  Charge 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth  (1807-1882) 

Santa  Filomena 118 

The  "  Cumberland " 271 

The  Republic  (from  The  Building  of  the  Skip)       .         .        .324 
Lowell,  James  Russell  (1819-1891) 

Lincoln  (from  the  Commemoration  Ode)         ....     322 
Lowell,  Robert  Traill  Spence  (1816-1891) 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow  (1857)        .        .        .        .        .        .121 


426  Poetry  of  the  People 

PAGE 

Macaulay,  Rose 

The  Garden  of  the  Dead 370 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington,  Lord  (1800-1859) 

The  Battle  of  Naseby .82 

MacGill,  Patrick  (1890-) 

It's  a  Far,  Far  Cry 366 

Mahony,  Francis  (pseudonym,  Father  Prout)  (1805-1866) 

The  Bells  of  Shandon 214 

Mangan,  James  Clarence  (1803-1849) 

Dark  Rosaleen 190 

McCarthy,  H.,  or  Annie  Chambers  Ketchum  (d.  1904) 

The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 305 

McCrae,  Lieutenant-Colonel  John  (1872-1918) 

In  Flanders  Fields 373 

McGee,  Thomas  D'Arcy  (1825-1868) 

The  Irish  Wife 188 

McMaster,  Guy  Humphrey  (1829-1887) 

Carmen  Bellicosum 245 

McNally,  Leonard  (1752-) 

The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill 140 

Masson,  Thomas  L.  (1866-) 

The  Red  Cross  Nurses 381 

Mercantini,  Luigi  (tr.  Nathan  Haskell  Dole) 

Garibaldi's  War  Hymn 374 

Meredith,  William  Tuckey  (1839-) 

Farragut 291 

Mickle,   William  Julius  (1735-1788),   and   James    Beattie    (1735- 
1803) 

There 's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House 168 

Miller,  Cincinnatus  Heine  (Joaquin)  (1841-1913) 

Columbus 228 

The  Defence  of  the  Alamo 262 

Moore,  Thomas  (1779-1852) 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms   .        .        .210 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night 212 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls      ....    209 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer 211 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters 209 

Morris,  William  (1834-1896) 

The  March  of  the  Workers  (1885) 124 


Index  of  Authors  and  Poems  42  7 

PAGE 

Muir,  Alexander 

The  Maple  Leaf  Forever 363 

Nairne,  Carolina  Oliphant,  Lady  (1766-1845) 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal 184 

Niven,  Frederick  (1878-) 

A  Carol  from  Flanders  .  • 368 

O'Hara,  Theodore  (1820-1867) 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 263 

O'Leary,  Ellen  (1831-1889) 

To  God  and  Ireland  True 225 

O'Rourke,  Edmund  (pseudonym,  Edmund  Falconer)  (1814-1879) 

Killamey ,  221 

Osgood,  Kate  Putnam  (1841-) 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 315 

Oxenham,  John 

The  Outer  Guard 364 

You  Also ! 382 

Paine,  Albert  Bigelow  (1861-) 

The  New  Memorial  Day 335 

Palmer,  John  Williamson  (1825-1896) 

The  Maryland  Battalion 238 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way 308 

Parker,  Martin  (c.  1630) 

You  Gentlemen  of  England 134 

Payne,  John  Howard  (1791-1852) 

Home,  Sweet  Home 347 

Pierpont,  John  (1785-1866) 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers :        .        .    231 

Warren's  Address 237 

Pike,  Albert  (1809-^891) 

Dixie 300 

R.  A.  S. 

Lyin'  Deid 372 

Ramsay,  Allan  (1686-1758) 

Lochaber  . 167 

Randall,  James  Ryder  (1839-) 

My  Maryland 302 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan  (1822-1872) 

Sheridan's  Ride 294 

The  Brave  at  Home 317 


428  Poetry  of  the  People 

PAGE 

Reisner,  C.  F.,  and  Davis,  B. 

Good-bye  Broadway  I   Hello  France  ! 386 

Riley,  James  VVhitcomb  (1853-1916) 

The  Old  Man  and  Jim 296 

Roche,  James  Jeffrey  (1847-) 

The  "  Constitution's"  Last  Fight •          251 

Rooney,  John  Jerome  (1866-) 

The  Little  Star  in  the  Window 376 

The  Men  behind  the  Guns 330 

Root,  George  Frederick  (1820-1895) 

The  Battle-Cry  of  Freedom 269 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp    .        . 290 

Rouget  de  Lisle,  C.  J.  (1760-1836) 

La  Marseillaise 358 

Rutherford,  Alison  (Mrs.  Patrick  Cockburn)  (1710-179.]) 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest.    Part  II       .        .        .        .    '    .     148 

Ryan,  Abram  Joseph  (1839-1886) 

The  Conquered  Banner  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     310 

Scott,  Lady  John  (see  under  Douglas,  William) 

Scott,  Sir  Walter  (1771-1832) 

Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border 149 

Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black 145 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 1 76 

Lochinvar -.        .        .        .        .178 

The  Bonnets  o'  Bonnie  Dundee 157 

This  is  my  Own,  my  Native  Land 143 

Seeger,  Alan  (1888-1916) 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death  .        .        .        .     '   .        .    380 

Shakespeare,  William  (1564-1616) 

Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind 133 

England  (from  Richard  II) 66 

Henry   the   Fifth's  Address   to   his   Soldiers   before    Har- 

fleur 67 

Henry  the  Fifth  before  Agincourt .         .         .         .        .         .68 

Take,  O,  Take  those  Lips  Away     '. 132 

Who  is  Sylvia? 132 

Shaw,  D.  T. 

Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean    .         .        .  :   -•  *        .        .    258 

Shepherd,  Nathaniel  Graham  (1835-1869) 

Roll-Call  .       •..'•'.' 299 


Index  of  Authors  and  Poems  429 

PAGE 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip  (1554-1586) 

My  True-Love  hath  my  Heart 131 

"  Sliabh  Cuilinn"  (perhaps  John  O'Hagan)  (1822-) 

Dear  Land 218 

Smith,  Samuel  Francis  (1808-1895) 

America 227 

Stanton,  Frank  Lebby  (1857-) 

Answering  to  Roll-Call 329 

The  War-Ship  "  Dixie  " 331 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence  (1833-1908) 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines          .......    273 

Gettysburg 282 

Stuart,  Dorothy  Margaret 

Evensong  in  Westminster  Abbey 367 

Sullivan,  Timothy  Daniel  (1827-1914) 

Song  from  the  Backwoods 223 

Tannahill,  Robert  (1774-1810) 

Jessie,  The  Flower  o'  Dumblane 182 

Taylor,  James  Bayard  (1825-1878) 

America 327 

The  Song  of  the  Camp   .        .        .        .        .  .        .119 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  (1809-1892) 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington       .        .        .105 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 116 

The  "  Revenge " 74 

Thomson,  James  (1700-1748) 

Rule,  Britannia  (from  Alfred,  a  Masque  written  with  James 

Mallet,  1740) 88 

Thornbury,  George  Walter  (1828-1876) 

The   Sally  from   Coventry  (from  Songs  of  Cavaliers  and 
Roundheads,  1857) 81 

The  Three  Troopers  (from  the  Jacobite  Ballads}  .        .        .85 
Timrod,  Henry  (1829-1867) 

Ode  to  the  Confederate  Dead         .        .  '     .        .        .        •     312 
Townsend,  Mary  Ashley  (1832-) 

A  Georgia  Volunteer 306 

Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore  (1813-1871) 

Washington's  Statue 248 

Van  Pyke,  Henry  (1852-) 

The  Name  of  France      ...» 362, 


43°  Poetry  of  the  People 

PAGE 

Wallace,  William  Ross  (1819-) 

The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill  .        .        .        .        .        .    247 

Weatherly,  Fred  E. 

Roses  in  Picardy 385 

Wenrich,  Percy,  and  Johnson,  Howard 

Where  Do  We  Go  from  Here 386 

Weston,  W.,  and  Bryan,  A. 

Joan  of  Arc 386 

Whitman,  Walt  (1819-1892) 

O  Captain  1  My  Captain ! 320 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf  (1807-1892) 

Barbara  Frietchie 274 

Centennial  Hymn 325 

Williams,  Harry,  and  Judge.  Jack 

It 's  a  Long,  Long  Way  to  Tipperary 384 

Wilson,  McLandburgh 

A  Round  Trip 378 

The  Little  Flag  on  Main  Street  .  .  .  .  -377 

Wolfe,  Charles  (1791-1823) 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 97 

Wordsworth,  William  (1770-1850) 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 94 

Work,  Henry  Clay  (1832-1884) 

Marching  through  Georgia     .,....•    293 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


Abraham  Lincoln  ... 

A  cheer  and   salute   for  the 

Admiral,  and  here 's  to  the 

Captain  bold 

After  Aughrim 

Afton  Water 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave  .  . 
All  in  the  merry  month  of  May 
All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  . 

America 

America 

America  Comes  In  .  .  .  . 
American  Flag,  The  .  .  .  . 
Am  I  the  slave  they  say  .  . 
And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true 
And  you,  to  whom  it  was  not 

given 

Annie  Laurie 

Answering  to  Roll-Call  .     .     . 
As  I  was  walking  all  alane 
At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads 

we  lay 

At  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant 

died 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores,  Sir 

Richard  Grenville  lay     .     . 

Auld  Lang  Syne 

A  wee  bird  cam'  to  our  ha' 

door 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 


PAGE  PAGE 

320       A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee 

crew 251 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign 

330  down 254 

195        Bailiff's   Daughter  of   Isling- 

174  ton,  The 129 

348       Ballad  of  Agincourt,  The   .     .     70 
128        Ballad  of  Heroes,  A  .     .    .     .     iii 

344       Bannockburn 144 

227       Barbara  Allen    .......  128 

327       Barbara  Frietchie       .     .     .     .274 

375        Battle  of  the  Baltic    ....    90 

259       Battle  of  the  Boyne,  The   .     .193 

205        Battle   of   Floden,  The   (See 

1 68  Flowers  of  the  Forest)      .     .  146 

Battle  of  Naseby,  The    ...    82 

382       Battle  of  Otterbourne,  The     .      3 

166       Battle-Cry  of  Freedom  .    .    .  269 

329       Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic   268 

56       Because  you  passed,  and  now 

are  not . iii 

271        Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores  228 

Belgian  National  Song  .    .     .  357 
244       Believe  me,  if  all  those  endear- 
ing young  charms  .    .    .     .210 
74       Bells  of  Shandon,  The  .     .     .214 
185        Ben  Bolt 349 

Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray  .  55 
163  Beyond  the  salt  waste  sea  .  .  370 
141  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The  .  263 

43 r 


43  2 


Poetry  of  the  People 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  133 
Blue  and  the  Gray,  The  .  .  318 
Blue  Bell  of  Scotland,  The  .  165 
Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border  149 
Bold  watchers  of  the  deeps  .  364 
Bonnets  o'  Bonnie  Dundee, 

The 157 

Bonnie   Banks   o'   Loch   Lo- 
mond, The 183 

Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  The  .  .  305 
Bonnie  George  Campbell  .  .  54 
Both  Worshipped  the  Same 

Great  Name 378 

Brabanconne,  The  .  .  .  .357 
Brave  at  Home,  The  .  .  .317 
Break  not  his  sweet  repose  .  314 
Breathes  there  the  man,  with 

soul  so  dead 143 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys ! 

we  '11  sing  another  song  .  .  293 
British  Grenadiers,  The  .  .  87 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The  97 
Bury  the  Great  Duke  .  .  .  105 
By  Killarney's  lakes  and  fells  221 
By  the  flow  of  the  inland 

river 318 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched 

the  flood 236 

By  yon  bonnie  banks  and  by 

yon  bonnie  braes  ....  183 
Campbells  are  comin',  The  .  164 

Canadian  Hymn 363 

Carmen  Bellicosum  ....  245 
Carol  from  Flanders,  A      .    .  368 
Centennial  Hymn      ....  325 
Character  of  the  Happy  War- 
rior      94 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade, 
The.  .  n6 


PACK 

Close  his  eyes ;   his  work  is 

done 313 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory 

arise 240 

Columbia,   the    Gem   of    the 

Ocean 258 

Columbus 228 

Come  all  ye  jolly  shepherds   .  180 
Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron  .  150 
Come,  listen  to  another  song  .  159 
Come  listen  to  me,  you  gal- 
lants so  free 34 

Come,  stack  arms,  men !    Pile 

on  the  rails 308 

Concord  Hymn 236 

Conquered  Banner,  The  .  .  310 
"Constitution's"  Last  Fight, 

The     . 251 

Coolun,  The 213 

"Corporal  Green ! "  the  Orderly 

cried 299 

"  Cumberland,"  The      .     .     .     271 

Dark  Rosaleen 190 

Dear  Land 218 

Deep  in  Canadian  woods  we  've 

met 223 

Defence  of  the  Alamo,  The  .  262 
Demon  Lover,  The  ....  60 
Dirge  for  a  Soldier  ....  313 

Dixie 300,  354 

Do  you  remember  long  ago  .  195 
Don't  you  remember  sweet 

Alice,  Ben  Bolt  ....  349 
Douglas  Tragedy,  The  ...  50 
Drink  to  me  only  with  thine 

eyes 133 

Driving  Home  the  Cows    .     .  315 

Edom  o'  Gordon 18 

England 66 


Index  of  Titles  and  First  Lines 


433 


PAGE 

Eutaw  Springs 244 

Evensong     in     Westminster 

Abbey 367 

Execution  of  Montrose,  The  150 
Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France  70 
Far  over  yon  hills  of  the 

heather  sae  green  ....  162 
Farewell  to  Lochaber,  and 

farewell,  my  Jean    ....  167 

Farragut 291 

Far  up  the  lonely  mountain- 
side   306 

Father  and  I  went  down  to 

camp 340 

Field  of  Waterloo,  The  .  .  98 
Fighting  Race,  The  ....  332 
Flag  Goes  By,  The  ....  336 
Fled  the  years  of  servile 

shame ! 357 

Flow    gently,    sweet    Afton, 

among  thy  green  braes  .  .174 
Flowers  of  the  Forest,  The  .  146 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that  .  .  .171 

For  Cuba 328 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards  .  277 
Foreseen  in  the  vision  of 

sages 327 

Franceline  rose  in  the  dawning 

gray 360 

From    slanting    shadow    and 

from  splintered  light  .  .  367 
Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis 

weary 310 

Garden  of  the  Dead,  The  .  .  370 
Garibaldi's  War  Hymn  .  .  .  374 
Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the 

Black 145 

Georgia  Volunteer,  A  ...  306 
Geraldines,  The 202 


PAGE 

Gettysburg 282 

Girl  I  Left  behind  Me,  The  .  207 

Give  a  Rouse 80 

Give  us  a  name  to  fill  the 

mind 362 

"  Give  us  a  song  I  "  the  soldiers 

cried 119 

God  bless  our  native  land  .  .  261 
God  of  our  fathers,  known  of 

old 126 

God  Save  the  King  ....  65 
God  save  our  gracious  King  .  65 
Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and 

Greece 102 

Good-bye  Broadway !  Hello 

France 386 

Green  Little  Shamrock  of  Ire- 
land, The 187 

Hail,  Columbia  !  happy  land  .  249 
Half  a  league,  half  a  league  .  116 
Hark !  I  hear  the  tramp  of 

thousands 270 

Harp  that  once  through 

Tara's  Halls,  The  ....  209 

Hats  off 336 

He  lay  upon  his  dying  bed  .  247 
He  which  hath  no  stomach  to 

this  fight 68 

Helen  of  Kirconnell  ....  57 
Henry  the  Fifth's  Address  to 

his  Soldiers  before  Harfleur  67 
Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor 

Tom  Bowling 142 

Heroes 379 

High  upon  Highlands  ...  54 
Home,  Sweet  Home  ....  347 
How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink 

to  rest 90 

Hunting  of  the  Cheviot,  The  .  8 


434 


Poetry  of  the  People 


PAGE  PAG* 

I    Have   a    Rendezvous  with  Joan  of  Arc 384 

Death 380  Jock  of  Hazeldean     ....  176 

I  sit  beside  my  darling's  grave  225  John  Anderson,  my  Jo  .     .     .  173 

I  wad  I  were  where  Helen  lies     57  John  Brown's  Body  ....  267 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife  188  July   the   first,   in    Oldbridge 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  town,  there  was  a  grievous 

of  me 369  battle 193 

I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary  .216  Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he 

I  'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean  .     .     .  184  left  us 101 

Immortality 383  Kathleen  Mavoumeen   .    .     .215 

In  days  of  yore,  from  Britain's  Kearney  at  Seven  Pines    .     .  273 

shore 363       Keenan's  Charge 279 

In  England  now  the  mounting  Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning  384 

lark 370       Killamey 221 

In  Flanders  Fields    ....  373  King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  him  right  now 80 

blow 373  King  Henry  the  Fifth  before 

In  Flanders  on  the  Christmas  Agincourt 68 

morn 368  Lament  of  Flora  Macdonald, 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  The 162 

days 138  Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant, 

In  swaddling  clothes  he  came  The 216 

across  the  sea 378  Land  o'  the  Leal,  The   .    .     .  184 

In  the  prison  cell  I  sit  .     .     .  290  Landing      of      the      Pilgrim 

In  their  ragged  regimentals    .  245  Fathers,  The 230 

Into  the  Devil  tavern     ...     85  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill,  The    .  140 

Irish  wife,  The 188  Lasjt  Rose  of  Summer,  The   .211 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty    .  171  Life  may  be  given  in  many 

It  fell  about  the  Lammas  tide      3  ways 322 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas    .     18  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  A    .  348 

Italian  National  Song    .    .     .  374       Lincoln 322 

It's  a  far,  far  cry  to  my  own  Little   Flag   on  Main  Street, 

land 366  The 377 

It's  a   Long,   Long  Way  to  Little  Star  in  the  Window,  The  376 

Tipperary 384  Lochaber  No  More    ....  167 

I 've  heard  them  lilting  .     .    .  146       Lochinvar 178 

Jack  Smith  belonged   to  the  Lord  Randal 53 

Y.  M.  C.  A 378  Loss    of    the    "  Birkenhead," 

Jessie,  the  Flowero' Dumblane  182  The 114 


Index  of  Titles  and  First  Lines 


435 


Lost  Leader,  The  .  .  .  .  101 

Lyin'  Deid 372 

Maple  Leaf  Forever,  The  .  .  363 
March  of  the  Workers,  The  .  124 
March,  march,  Ettrick  and 

Teviotdale 149 

Marching  through  Georgia  .  293 

Marseillaise,  The 359 

Maryland  Battalion,  The  .  .  238 

Maryland,  My 302 

Massa  's  in  de  Cold  Ground  .  352 
Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie  .  166 
Meeting  of  the  Waters,  The  .  209 
Memorial  Verses  on  the  Death 

of  Wordsworth 102 

Memory  of  the  Dead,  The  .  .  200 
Men  behind  the  Guns,  The  .  330 
Mid  pleasures  and  palaces 

though  we  may  roam  .  .  347 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory 

of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  .  268 
My  country,  'tis  of  thee  .  .227 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  176 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart, 

and  I  have  his 131 

Name  of  France,  The  .  .  .  362 

Nathan  Hale 342 

New  Memorial  Day,  The  .  .  335 
Nights  are  growing  very  lonely  387 
No  precedent,  ye  say  .  .  .  328 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a 

funeral  note 97 

O  bay  of  Dublin !  my  heart 

you  're  troublin'  ....  220 
O  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray  55 
O  Captain  !  My  Captain  .  .  320 
O  Columbia,  the  gem  of  the 

ocean 258 

O  my  Dark  Rosaleen  .  .  .190 


PAGE 
O,  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red 

rose 171 

O   Paddy  dear,  and   did  you 

hear  the  news  that's  going 

round 198 

O  where  hae  ye  been,  Lord 

Randal,  my  son  •  •  •  •  53 
O,  where  hae  ye  been,  my  lang- 

lost  love 60 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come 

out  of  the  west  .  .  .  .178 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke 

of  Wellington 105 

Ode  to  the  Confederate  Dead  312 
Ode,  Written  in  the  Year  1746  90 
Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so 

smart 136 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North  .  .  90 
Oft,  in  the  stilly  night  .  .  .212 
Oh,  blackie,  bonnie  blackie  bird  372 
Oh,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun  .  213 
Oh,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the 

dawn's  early  light  ....  256 
Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to 

spare 320 

Oh,  that  last  day  in  Lucknow 

fort 121 

Oh,  the  roses  we  plucked  for 

the  blue 335 

Oh !  where  ?  and  oh,  where  is 

your  Highland  laddie  gone  .  165 
Oh  I  wherefore  come  ye  forth 

in  triumph  from  the  north  .  82 
Old  Folks  at  Home  .  .  .  .353 
"Old  Ironsides"  .....  254 
Old  Kentucky  Home,  My  .  .351 
Old  Man  and  Jim,  The  .  .  .296 
Old  man  never  had  much  to  say  296 
Old  Scottish  Cavalier,  The  .  159 


Poetry  of  the  People 


PAGE 

On  Richmond  Hill  there  lives 

a  lass 140 

Once  more  unto  the  breach, 

dear  friends,  once  more  .  .  67 
Our  band  is  few  but  true  and 

tried 241 

Our  fathers'  God !  from  out 

whose  hand 325 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue- 
eyed  grass 315 

Out  where  the  line  of  battle 

cleaves 381 

Outer  Guard,  The  ....  364 

Over  There 386 

Pack  up  your  troubles  in  your 

old  kit-bag 385 

Parting  of  the  Ways,  The  .  .  339 
"  Passion  o'  me  !  "  cried  Sir 

Richard  Tyrone  .  .  .  .  81 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,pibroch 

of  Donuil 145 

Pilgrim  Fathers,  The  .  .  .231 

Poor  Tom  Bowling 142 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  !  "  The 

psalm  to-day 233 

"  Read  out  the  names ! "  and 

Burke  sat  back 332 

Recessional 126 

Red  Cross  Nurses,  The  .  .381 

Red,  Red  Rose,  A  ....  171 
Relief  of  Lucknow,  The  .  .121 

Reveille,  The 270 

"  Revenge,"  The 74 

Right  on  our  flank  the  crimson 

sun  went  down 114 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  now,  Lord 

Douglas,"  she  says  ...  50 

Robin  Hood  and  Allin  a  Dale  34 

Robin  Hood  and  the  King  .  38 


PAGE 

Robin  Hood  and  Little  John  .  24 
Robin  Hood  Rescuing  the 

Widow's  Three  Sons  .  .  29 
Robin  Hood's  Death  and 

Burial 47 

Roll-Call 299 

Roses  in  Picardy 385 

Round  de  meadows  am  a-ring- 

ing 352 

Round  Trip,  A 378 

Rule,  Britannia 88 

Sally  from  Coventry,  The  .  .  81 

Sally  in  our  Alley 136 

Santa  Ana  came  storming,  as 

a  storm  might  come  .  .  .  262 

Santa  Filomena 118 

School  at  War,  The  ....  365 
Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace 

bled 144 

Shan  Van  Vocht,  The  ...  196 
She  was  no  armored  cruiser  of 

twice  six  thousand  tons  .  .255 

Sheridan's  Ride 294 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be 

forgot 185 

Sir  Patrick  Spens i 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble 

graves 312 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still 

on  its  journey 273 

Soggarth  Aroon 205 

Soldier,  The 369 

Soldier's  Grave,  A  ....  314 
Some  Talk  of  Alexander,  and 

some  of  Hercules  ....  87 
Song  from  the  Backwoods  .  223 
Song  of  Marion's  Men  .  .  .  241 
Song  of  the  Camp,  The  .  .119 
Sons  of  the  Self-Same  Race  .  388 


Index  of  Titles  and  First  Lines 


437 


PAGE 

Southrons,  hear  your  country 

call  you 300 

Spruce  Macaronis,  and  pretty 

to  see 238 

Stand  !  the  ground 's  your  own, 

my  braves 237 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The  .256 
Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  .  .  308 . 
Stop!  for  thy  tread  is  on  an 

Empire's  dust 98 

Sword  of  Bunker  Hill,  The  .  247 
Take,  O,  take  those  lips 

away 132 

Tenting    on    the    Old    Camp 

Ground      .......  346 

Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Har- 
bor, The 233 

The  breaking  waves   dashed 

high 230 

The  breezes  went  steadily  thro' 

the  tall  pines 342 

The    Campbells    are    comin', 

Oho,  Oho .  164 

The  dames  of  France  are  fond 

and  free 207 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy 

shore 302 

The   Geraldines!    the   Geral- 

dines  !  —  't  is  full  a  thousand 

years 202 

The  harp  that  once  through 

Tara's  halls 209 

The  heroes  of  the  story  books 

are  ever  in  a  pose  ....  379 
The  king  sits  in  Dumferling 

toune i 

The  kynge  came  to  Notyng- 

hame 38 

The  little  flag  on  Main  Street   377 


PAGE 

The  maid  who  binds  her  war- 
rior's sash 317 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll 
has  beat 263 

The  Perse  owt  off  Northom- 
barlonde 8 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  —  where 
are  they 231 

The  quarry  whence  thy  form 
majestic  sprung  ....  248 

The  sainted  isle  of  old  .     .     .  196 

The  sun  had  set 279 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er 
the  lofty  Benlomond  .  .  .  182 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  the 
old  Kentucky  home  .  .  .351 

There  are  twelve  months  in  all 
the  year 29 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world 
a  valley  so  sweet  .  .  .  .  209 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's 
Well 58 

There 's  a  dear  little  plant  that 
grows  in  our  isle  ....  187 

There 's  a  little  star  in  the  win- 
dow of  the  house  across  the 
way 376 

There 's  a  Long,  Long  Trail  .  387 

There  's  Nae  Luck  about  the 
House  ..." 168 

There  was  a  youth,  and  a  well- 
beloved  youth 129 

They  are  not  dead,  the  soldier 
and  the  sailor 383 

They  Ve  named  a  cruiser 
Dixie  —  that 's  whut  the 
papers  say 331 

They  were  summoned  from 
the  hillside 384 


438. 


Poetry,  of  the  People 


This  is  my  Own,  my  Native 

Land 143 

This  one  fought  with  Jackson, 
and    faced   the    fight   with 

Lee 329 

This   royal   throne   of   kings, 

•  this  scepter'd  isle  ....     66 
Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of 

State 324 

Three     Hundred  •  Thousand 

More 288 

Three  Troopers,  The  ...  85 
'T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer  .211 
To  arms,  men !  To  arms,  men !  374 

To  Celia 133 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  west- 
ward winging,  o'er  mapless 

miles  of  sea 337 

To  God  and  Ireland  True  .  .  225 
To  the  Cambrio-Britons  and 

their  Harp 70 

To  the  Lords  o'  Convention 

'twas  Claverhousewhospoke  157 
Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp  .  .  .  290 
Twa  Corbies,  The  ....  56 

Union,  The 324 

Untrammelled   Giant   of   the 

West 339 

Up   from   the   meadows   rich 

with  corn  .     .    • 274 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of 

day 294 

Vicar  of  Bray,  The    .     .     .     .138 

Vicksburg 277 

Vive  la  France 360- 

Wae  's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  .  163 
Warren's  Address  ....  253 
War-Ship  "  Dixie,"  The  .  .331 
Warship  of  1812,  The  .  .  .  255 


PAGE 

Washington's  Statue      .     .     .  248 

Wave,  wave  your  glorious 
battle-flags,  brave  soldiers  of 
the  North 282 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee 
Ribber 353 

We  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and 
native  to  the  soil  ....  305 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra- 
ham  288 

We  are  coming  from  the  ranch, 
from  the  city  and  the  mine  375 

We  don't  forget — while  in  this 
dark  December 365 

Wearing  of  the  Green,  The    .  198 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  Ode  on 
the  Death  of 105 

We  're  tenting  to-night  on  the 
old  camp  ground  .  ...  346 

What  is  the  Voice  I  hear   .     .  388 

What  is  this,  the  sound  and 
rumor?  What  is  this  that 
all  men  hear 124 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heav- 
en's command 88 

When  comes  the  day  all  hearts 
to  weigh 218 

When  Freedom  from  her 
mountain  height  ....  259 

When  Robin  Hood  and  Little 
John 47 

When  Robin  Hood  was  about 
twenty  years  old  ....  24 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships 
Come  In 337 

When  the  Kye  Comes  Hame  .  180 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is 
wrought 118 

Where  Do  We  Go  from  Here  386 


Index  of  Titles  and  First  Lines 


439 


PAGE 

While  you  are  sleeping,  your 
France  is  weeping ....  386 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety- 
Eight  200 

Who  is  Silvia?  what  is  she     .  132 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior? 
Who  is  he 94 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide, 
ladie 176 

Wife  of  Usher's  Well,  The     .     58 

With  deep  affection  and  recol- 
lection   214 


PAGE 

Wordsworth,  Memorial  Verses 

on  Death  of 102 

Yankee  Doodle  .  •  .  .  .  .  340 
Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie 

Doon 175 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  .  .  93 
Ye  sons  of  Freedom,  wake  to 

glory 359 

Yes,  we  '11  rally  'round  the  flag, 

boys,  we  '11  rally  once  again  .  269 

You  Also! 382 

You  Gentlemen  of  England  .  134 


ANNOUNCEMENTS 


REFERENCE  BOOKS  ON  POETRY 

Alexander :  Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of  Robert  Brown- 
ing.   212  pages 
Bright  and  Miller:    Elements  of  English  Versification. 

i 66  pages 
Cook's  Addison :   Criticisms  on  Paradise  Lost,    xxiv  + 

200  pages 

Cook  :  Art  of  Poetry.   The  Poetical  Treatises  of  Horace, 
Vida,  and  Boileau,  with  the  translations  by  Howes, 
Pitt,  and  Soame.    Iviii  +  303  pages 
Cook :  Cardinal  Newman's  Essay  on  Poetry,  with  refer- 
ence to  Aristotle's  Poetics.    36  pages 
Cook :   Hunt's  "  What  is  Poetry  ?  "    98  pages 
Cook :  Shelley's  Defense  of  Poetry.    86  pages 
Cook  :   Sidney's  Defense  of  Poesy,    xlv  +  1 03  pages 
Cooper  :  Aristotle  on  the  Art  of  Poetry.   xxix-(-ioi  pages 
Corson:   Primer  of  English  Verse.    232  pages 
Gayley  :  Classic  Myths  in  English  Literature  and  in  Art. 

xlii  +  597  pages 

Gayley  and  Flaherty  :  Poetry  of  the  People.    403  pages 
Gayley  and  Kurtz :    Methods  and   Materials  of  Liter- 
ary Criticism :    Lyric,  Epic,  and  Allied  Forms  of 
Poetry  \In  press\ 

Gummere:   Handbook  of  Poetics.    250  pages 
Gummere  :  Old  English  Ballads,    xcviii  +  380  pages 
Hudson  :  Life,  Art,  and  Characters  of  Shakespeare.  Two 
volumes,   1003  pages,  cloth;  half  morocco 

Long :  American  Literature,    xxi  +  48 1  pages 
Long:  English  Literature.    582  pages 
Long :  Outlines  of  English  and  American  Literature 
Manly:   English  Poetry,    xxviii -f  580  pages 
Schelling:  Elizabethan  Lyrics,  lxix-j-327  pages 
Schelling :  Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics.  Ixix  +  314  pages 
Sneath:    Wordsworth  —  Poet  of  Nature  and   Poet  of 
Man.    320  pages 


GINN    AND    COMPANY    PUBLISHERS 


THE  ELEMENTS   OF   ENGLISH 
VERSIFICATION 

By  JAMES  WILSON  BRIGHT,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  Johns 

Hopkins  University,  and  RAYMOND  D.  MILLER,  Instructor 

in  English  in  the  University  of  Missouri 

I2mo,  cloth,  xii  +  166  pages 

As  THE  title  indicates,  "The  Elements  of  English  Versification"  deals 
exclusively  with  the  more  external  side  of  poetry,  —  its  metrical  form. 
Part  One  treats  of  the  individual  verse :  it  shows  the  nature  of  rhythrv, 
meter,  melody,  harmony  ;  enumerates  and  illustrates  the  various  meters  •, 
defines  tone  color  and  the  different  kinds  of  rime ;  and  concludes  with 
an  important  chapter  on  the  scansion  of  verse.  Part  Two  is  concerned 
with  the  grouping  of  verses  into  paragraphs,  stanzas,  and  complete 
poems.  An  exhaustive  index  of  topics  and  authors  increases  the  value 
of  the  book  as  a  manual  of  reference. 

The  subject  is  presented  in  a  brief,  impersonal  style,  illuminated  at 
every  point  by  varied  and  unhackneyed  illustration.  The  treatment  is 
broad  and  entirely  free  from  controversial  matter. 

LEIGH  HUNT'S  "WHAT  IS  POETRY?" 

Edited  by  ALBERT  S.  COOK,  Professor  of  the  English  Language 
and  Literature  in  Yale  University 

I2mo,  cloth,  98  pages 

LEIGH  HUNT'S  answer  to  the  question  What  is  Poetry  ?  including 
various  remarks  on  versification.  The  definitions,  the  quotations,  and 
the  charm  and  spirit  of  this  book  make  it  peculiarly  valuable  for  school 
and  college  use  as  an  introduction  to  a  course  in  poetry  or  criticism. 

PRIMER  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

By  HIRAM  CORSON,  late  Professor  of  English  Literature 
in  Cornell  University 

I2mo,  cloth,  232  pages 

THE  leading  purpose  of  this  volume  is  to  introduce  the  student  to  the 
aesthetic  and  organic  character  of  English  verse.  Tennyson's  stanzas, 
the  Spenserian  stanzas,  the  sonnet,  and  blank  verse  are  specially  treated. 

GINN  AND  COMPANY  PUBLISHERS" 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000812081     8 


